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THE  WOLF-CUB 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


"It  is  my  officer,  my  parent!"  whispered  the  young  policeman 
FRONTISPIECE.    See  page  151 


THE   WOLF-CUB 


A  NOVEL  OF  SPAIN 


BY 


PATRICK  AND  TERENCE  CASEY 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
H.   WESTON  TAYLOR 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN  AND  COMPANY 
1918 


Copyright,  JQi8, 
BY  PATRICK  AND  TERENCE  CASEY 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  January,  1918 


THE  WOLF-CUB 


2129117 


THE  WOLF-CUB 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  Jacinto  Quesada  was  yet  a  very  little 
Spaniard,  his  father  kissed  him  upon  both  cheeks 
and  upon  the  brow,  and  went  away  on  an  enter- 
prise of  forlorn  desperation. 

On  a  great  rock  at  the  brink  of  the  village  Jacinto 
Quesada  stood  with  his  weeping  mother,  and  to- 
gether they  watched  the  somber-faced  mountaineer 
hurry  down  the  mountainside.  He  was  bound  for 
that  hot,  sandy  No  Man's  Land  which  lies  between 
the  British  outpost,  Gibraltar,  and  sunburned,  hag- 
gard, tragic  Spain.  The  two  dogs,  Pepe  and  Len- 
chito,  went  with  him.  They  were  pointers,  retriev- 
ers. For  months  they  had  been  trained  in  the 
work  they  were  to  do.  In  all  Spain  there  were  no 
more  likely  dogs  for  smuggling  contraband. 

The  village,  where  Jacinto  Quesada  lived  with 
his  peasant  mother,  was  but  a  short  way  below  the 
snow-line  in  the  wild  Sierra  Nevada.  Behind  it 
the  Picacho  de  la  Veleta  lifted  its  craggy  head; 
off  to  the  northeast  bulked  snowy  old  "Muley  Has- 
san" Cerro  de  Mulhacen,  the  highest  peak  of  the 
peninsula;  and  all  about  were  the  bleak  spires  of 
lesser  mountains,  boulder-strewn  defiles,  moaning 
dark  gorges.  The  village  was  called  Minas  de  la 
Sierra. 


2  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  mother  took  the  little  Jacinto  by  the  hand 
and  led  him  to  the  village  chapel.  She  knelt  be- 
fore the  dingy  altar  a  long  time.  Then  she  lit  a 
blessed  candle  and  prayed  again.  And  then  she 
handed  the  wick  dipped  in  oil  to  Jacinto  and  said : 

"Light  a  candle  for  thy  father,  tiny  one." 

"But  why  should  I  light  a  candle  for  our 
Juanito,  mamacitaf  " 

"It  is  that  Our  Lady  of  the  Sorrows  and  the 
Great  Pity  will  not  let  him  be  killed  by  the  men  of 
the  Guardia  Civil!  " 

"Men  do  not  kill  unless  they  hate.  Do  the  men 
of  the  Guardia  Civil  hate,  then,  the  pobre  padre  of 
me  and  the  sweet  husband  of  thee,  mamacitaf" 

"It  is  not  the  hate,  child!  The  men  of  the 
Guardia  Civil  kill  any  breaker  of  the  laws  they 
discover  guilty-handed.  It  is  the  way  they  keep 
the  peace  of  Spain." 

"But  our  Juanito  is  not  a  lawbreaker,  little 
mother.  He  is  no  lagarto,  no  lizard,  no  sly  tricky 
one.  He  is  an  honest  man." 

"Hush,  nino!  There  are  no  honest  men  left  in 
Spain.  They  all  have  starved  to  death.  Thy 
father  has  become  a  contrabandist  a.  And  if  it  be 
the  will  of  the  good  God,  and  if  Pepe  and  Lenchito 
be  shrewd  to  skulk  through  the  shadows  of  night 
and  swift  to  run  past  the  policemen  on  watch,  we 
will  have  sausages  and  garbanzos  to  eat,  and  those 
little  legs  of  thine  will  not  be  the  puny  reeds  they 
are  now.  Ojala!  they  will  be  round  and  pudgy  with 
fat!" 

The  men  of  Minas  de  la  Sierra  were  all  wood- 
choppers  and  manzanilleros — gatherers  of  the  white- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  3 

flowered  wianzanilla.  Their  fathers  had  been  wood- 
choppers  and  manzanilleros  before  them.  But  too 
persistently  and  too  long,  altogether  too  long,  had 
the  trees  been  cut  down  and  the  manzanilla  har- 
vested. The  mountains  had  grown  sterile,  barren, 
bald.  Not  so  many  cords  of  Spanish  pine  were 
sledded  down  the  mountain  slopes  as  on  a  time; 
not  so  many  men  burdened  beneath  great  loads  of 
manzanilla  went  down  into  the  city  of  Granada  to 
sell  in  the  market  place  that  which  was  worth  good 
silver  pesetas. 

There  are  no  deer  in  the  Sierra  Nevada — neither 
red,  fallow,  nor  roe.  There  are  no  wild  boar. 
There  is  only  the  Spanish  ibex.  And  what  poor 
serrano  can  provision  his  good  wife  and  his  cabana 
full  of  lusty  brats  by  hunting  the  Spanish  ibex? 
He  has  but  one  weapon — the  ancient  muzzle-load- 
ing smooth-bore.  And  the  ibex  speeds  like  a  chill 
glacial  wind  across  the  snow  fields  and  craggy  soli- 
tudes, and  only  a  man  armed  with  a  cordite  repeater 
can  hope  to  bring  him  down. 

Soon  descended  the  mountains  only  men  who 
had  turned  their  backs  upon  Minas  de  la  Sierra  and 
who  thought  to  leave  behind  forever  the  bleak  peaks 
and  the  wind-swept  gorges  and  the  implacable 
hunger.  Out  of  every  ten  only  one  crawled  back, 
beaten  and  bruised  by  the  savage  Spanish  cities 
and  the  savage  Spanish  plains.  With  those  of 
Minas  de  la  Sierra  who  could  not  tear  themselves 
away  from  their  native  rocks,  these  broken-hearted 
ones  continued  on  and  with  them  slowly  starved. 

It  was  not  the  will  of  the  good  God  that  Jacinto 
Quesada  should  have  fat  pudgy  legs  by  reason  of 


4  THE  WOLF-CUB 

his  father's  endeavors.  Shrewd  were  the  dogs, 
Pepe  and  Lenchito,  but  they  were  not  so  shrewd  as 
were  the  Spanish  police.  Came  a  pale  and  stutter- 
ing arriero,  a  muleteer,  up  to  the  village  one  day. 
To  Jacinto  Quesada's  mother  he  brought  tragic 
news. 

The  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  had  discovered 
poor  Juanito  as  he  was  unbuckling  a  packet  of 
Cuban  cigars  from  the  throat  of  the  dog  Lenchito; 
they  had  walked  him  out  behind  a  sand  dune;  they 
had  made  him  dig  a  grave.  Then  they  had  shot 
down  Lenchito;  then  they  had  shot  down  Juan 
Quesada.  And  then  the  dog  and  the  man  were 
kicked  together  into  the  one  grave  and  sand  piled  on 
top  of  them  both. 

But  make  no  mistake,  mi  seiior  caballero  reader ! 
The  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  are  not  abominations 
of  cruelty.  They  are  not  monsters,  brutal  and  de- 
praved. Quita!  no. 

There  are  twenty-five  thousand  men  in  the 
Guardia  Civil;  twenty  thousand  foot  and  five  thou- 
sand cavalry.  By  twos,  eternally  by  twos,  they 
go  through  Spain,  exterminating  crime  wherever 
crime  shows  its  fanged  and  evil  head. 

Every  Spaniard  is  potentially  a  criminal.  An 
empty  belly  goads  him  into  lawlessness;  his  very 
nature  greases  his  wayward  feet.  The  Spaniard  is 
by  nature  sullen,  irascible,  insolently  independent, 
lawless.  He  is  more  African  than  European. 
Prick  a  Spaniard  and  a  vindictive  Moor  bleeds. 

Then,  whether  it  be  his  famishing  hunger  or 
lawless  passion  which  has  caused  him  to  rise  above 
the  law,  the  Spaniard,  his  crime  writ  in  red,  flees 


THE  WOLF-CUB  5 

from  the  police.  Spain  is  a  country  of  uncouth 
wilds.  There  are  the  desolate  high  steppes  and  the 
savage  mountains ;  there  are  the  tawny  despoblados, 
which  are  uninhabitated  wastes;  there  are  the 
marismas,  which  are  labyrinthine  everglades  where 
whole  regiments  may  lie  concealed. 

But  also,  in  Spain,  there  are  railroads  and  tele- 
graphs, and  a  most  efficient  constabulary,  the 
Guardia  Civil.  And,  were  it  not  for  Caciquismo, 
all  evil-doers  would  be  speedily  apprehended  by  the 
Guardia  Civil,  tried  under  the  alcaldes,  and  incar- 
cerated in  the  Carcel  de  la  Corte  or  the  Presidio  of 
Ceuta. 

Caciquismo  is  not  a  tangible  thing.  It  is  a  secret 
and  sinister  influence.  It  is  not  the  Tammany  of 
New  York;  it  is  not  the  Camorra  of  Naples.  Yet 
it  resembles  both  these  corrupt  edifices  in  its  spe- 
cial Spanish  way.  Its  instruments  are  prime  min- 
isters and  muleteers,  members  of  the  cortes  and 
bullfighters,  hidalgos  and  low-caste  Gitanos. 

A  cacique  may  be  only  the  mayor  of  a  tiny  ham- 
let ;  again,  he  may  be  privy  councilor  to  the  king. 
Yet  high  or  low,  he  is  but  one  of  the  many  ten- 
tacles of  a  gigantic  octopus  which  lays  its  clammy 
shadow  athwart  the  land. 

It  is  well  known  that  Tammany,  for  reasons 
political  or  otherwise,  protected  criminals.  Well, 
even  as  did  Tammany,  so  does  Caciquismo.  A 
Spanish  criminal  may  be  captured,  tried  before  a 
magistrate  and  all ;  but  if  he  be  one  in  good  standing 
with  the  caciques,  never  is  he  sent  to  the  Carcel  de 
la  Corte  or  Ceuta.  The  invisible  eight  arms  of  the 
gigantic  octopus  uncoil  and  reach  out,  the  thousand 


6  THE  WOLF-CUB 

ducts  along  those  arms  open  to  spew  a  flood  of 
favors  and  gold,  and  magistrate  and  prosecutor 
are  bought  and  paid  for,  and  the  men  of  the  Civil 
Guard  who  cannot  be  bought,  who  are  incorruptible, 
are  in  the  Spanish  courts  betrayed ! 

Therefore,  the  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  are  most 
high-handed  and  cruel.  The  criminal  caught  in  the 
deed  never  reaches  the  Spanish  jail.  He  is  shot 
down  on  the  spot.  Bigots  for  justice  are  the  men 
of  the  Guardia  Civil! 

Carajo!  but  there  was  wailing  in  Minas  de  la 
Sierra  when  came  the  news  of  Juan  Quesada's 
death.  So  many  men  had  gone  away  and  been 
murdered  by  the  police,  and  so  few  were  left! 
Women  who  had  been  made  widows  in  the  selfsame 
way  as  Jacinto  Quesada's  mother  came  to  the  hut 
and  sought  to  comfort  her.  But  she  would  not  be 
comforted.  For  three  days  she  lay  on  the  earthen 
floor  of  her  hut  and  beat  her  hands  and  her  head 
against  the  dust.  Then  she  commenced  vomiting 
and  swooning  like  one  sick  unto  death. 

They  thought  it  was  the  cholera.  The  cholera 
was  forever  scaling  the  high  mountains  and  skulk- 
ing into  the  village  in  the  night.  A  man  of  the 
village  went  for  the  doctor,  Don  Jaime  de  Tor- 
reblanca  y  Moncada.  He  lived  but  a  few  miles 
from  Granada,  and  the  man  had  to  go  all  down  the 
hills  to  summon  him. 

Torreblanca  y  Moncada  was  what  is  called  a 
"hard  man."  He  was  a  grandee  by  birth  and  breed- 
ing, a  hidalgo  of  the  old  granite-jawed,  eagle-stern 
and  eagle-haughty  Spanish  sort — the  Cortes  y  Mon- 
roy  sort,  the  Hernan  de  Soto  sort.  He  worshipped 


THE  WOLF-CUB  7 

his  ancient  name,  his  high  hidalgo  blood.  His  per- 
sonal honor  was  to  him  more  precious  than  life, 
more  sacred  than  a  sacrament,  inviolable,  conse- 
crated. 

When  a  young  man,  he  had  married  a  woman  of 
race  and  beauty.  She  had  run  off  with  a  Gypsy 
picador.  Don  Jaime  had  put  a  Manchegan  knife 
down  his  boot  and  set  off  after  them,  vowing  to 
follow  them  to  the  end  of  the  earth  even,  and  to  kill 
them  both.  But  the  train,  in  which  the  guilty  ones 
fled,  had  not  reached  Jaen  when  it  was  wrecked,  and 
they  both  were  crushed  out  of  all  semblance  to  two 
sinful  lovers. 

With  composure  and  reserve,  Don  Jaime  heard 
the  news.  He  did  not  even  laugh  harshly  or  curse 
God  for  robbing  him  of  his  revenge.  Only  grim, 
quiet  and  morose,  he  returned  to  his  dishonored 
house  and  to  his  baby  daughter  that  had  been 
robbed,  sacrileged,  and  orphaned. 

He  was  quite  a  rememberable-looking  man.  His 
hair  had  whitened  quickly  in  the  years  that  fol- 
lowed ;  his  skin,  from  exposure  to  wind  and  weather, 
was  a  deep  swarth;  and  his  eyes  were  gray.  Not 
many  Spaniards  have  gray  eyes.  The  eyes  of  Tor- 
reblanca  y  Moncada  were  a  clear,  cold,  agate  gray. 
All  in  all,  there  was  about  his  appearance,  especially 
the  long  aquiline  nose,  the  stony  eyes  and  pointed 
white  beard,  something  which  seemed  to  harken 
back  to  the  days  of  ruffs  and  ready  swords — the 
days  of  the  terrible  Spanish  infantry,  the  Armanda, 
the  Bigotes,  the  "bearded  men"  the  Conquistadores. 

The  mountaineers  of  Minas  de  la  Sierra  knew 
fear  of  him  and  awe.  For  them  he  had  only  a  con- 


8  THE  WOLF-CUB 

temptuous  eye  and  a  bitter  smile  and  a  harsh  im- 
perious way.  They  said  he  had  a  granite  boulder 
for  a  heart.  But  he  was  very  tender  with  the 
sick. 

He  was  the  sort  of  physician  who  looks  upon  his 
business  of  serving  the  ailing  as  a  sacred  commis- 
sion from  on  high.  He  was  like  one  who  had  taken 
Holy  Orders  with  his  doctor's  degree.  No  Jesuit 
was  more  slave  to  his  oaths ;  no  Jesuit  worked  with 
more  zeal  for  God  and  the  Society  than  did  Don 
Jaime  for  Humanity  and  Science.  The  most  pov- 
erty-abased labrador,  the  most  filthy  beggar,  had 
but  to  summon  him,  and  he  would  arise  from  his 
table  or  his  bed  and  ride  across  Spain  to  him  who 
needed  healing. 

He  was  the  only  physician  who  would  journey  up 
the  mountains  to  Minas  de  la  Sierra.  It  mattered 
not  to  him  that  there  were  long  climbing  miles  of 
perilous  goat-paths  along  howling  gorges;  it  mat- 
tered not  to  him  that  the  mountaineers  never  had 
money  to  pay  him  his  just  due.  He  was  indeed  a 
"hard  man,"  haughty  as  Satanas,  and  grim  and 
dour.  But  even  as  his  personal  honor  was  to  him 
more  precious  than  life,  so  was  his  physician's  honor 
a  covenant  with  Jehovah,  tyrannical  and  imperious 
to  command  him. 

The  old  men  of  Minas  were  sitting  under  the 
cork-oak  in  the  center  of  the  village  when  the  hi- 
dalgo doctor  came  out  of  the  hut  of  the  sick  woman. 

"Is  it  not  the  great  illness,  Don  Jaime?"  asked 
one  of  the  old  men,  old  Castro.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  dread  cholera. 

"No.     She  is  merely  sick  with  despair." 


THE  WOLF-CUB  9 

"Ah,  that  is  the  great  illness  of  Spain !  All  Spain 
is  sick  with  despair !  " 

"Carajo!  but  you  are  right,  my  father!"  an- 
swered the  Senor  Doctor  in  his  bitter  way.  "Spain 
despairs.  And  why  not?  Spain  famishes.  There 
is  no  food  for  honest  men  to  eat.  And  men  turn 
dishonest,  thinking  by  crime  to  appease  their  gnaw- 
ing bellies.  They  became  contrabandistas,  saltea- 
dorcs  de  camino,  abigcos,  ladroncs.  And  the  men 
of  the  Guardia  Civil  take  them  out  on  the  mountain- 
side and  murder  them. 

"Our  forefathers,"  he  philosophized,  "were  ref- 
ugees from  the  fall  of  Troy.  Black  was  their  na- 
tional color ;  black  for  their  lost  cause.  They  should 
put  a  black  stripe  with  the  red  and  yellow  stripes 
of  our  modern  Spanish  flag.  A  black  stripe  for  de- 
spair." 

"Bueno,  Don  Jaime !  "  said  the  old  men.  One 
added : 

"We  have  not  studied  at  Salamanca  like  you,  but 
we  know  what  we  know.  Every  night  the  hungry 
children  cry  themselves  to  sleep.  Our  own  por- 
ridge bowls  are  never  full.  We  have  seen  our  sons 
grow  desperate.  We  have  seen  them  one  by  one  go 
away.  There  was  Benito,  my  youngest.  He  be- 
came a  contrabandista,  and  the  Civil  Guard  mur- 
dered him.  There  was  Adolpho,  the  son  of  my 
sister  Teresa.  He  also  went  the  same  way.  There 
was  Santiago  Reyes  and  Mateo  Pacheco  and  Ig- 
nacio  Parral.  And  now  follows  Juan  Quesada." 

"What  would  you  ?  "  asked  the  Senor  Doctor,  with 
sudden  brutality.  "The  Guardia  Civil  must  keep 
the  peace  of  Spain.  And  Spaniards  must  steal  to 


10  THE  WOLF-CUB 

live.  It  is  dog  eat  dog.  It  will  always  be  dog  eat 
dog  while  men  are  Spaniards  and  Spaniards  starve." 

He  turned  abruptly  away  and  entered  once  more 
the  hut  of  Jacinto  Ouesada's  mother.  When  he 
came  out  again,  he  said  to  the  women  clustered 
about  the  door: 

"She  is  forever  kissing  the  child  Jacinto  and 
moaning,  'My  poor  Jacintito!  What  will  become 
of  thee,  thou  pale  tiny  one?  My  poor,  poor 
Jacintito ! ' 

"It  is  better  that  he  should  be  taken  away  from 
her  until  she  is  herself  again.  His  presence  here 
only  deepens  her  despair.  I  will  carry  him  with 
me  down  the  mountain  to  my  casa  outside  Granada 
and  keep  him  there  for  a  time.  I  have  not  much — 
what  Spaniard  is  rich? — but  he  will  be  fed  well; 
he  will  be  given  the  same  food  as  is  given  my  own 
daughter,  Felicidad." 

"Ah,  Don  Jaime,  you  have  the  heart  of  gold!" 
cried  one  woman,  her  eyes  moist  and  tender. 

"The  Mother  of  God  reward  you,  and  mend  your 
broken  heart,  proud  Torreblanca  y  Moncada !"  cried 
another.  And  the  others  would  have  burst  out  in 
a  full  litany  of  praises,  had  not  the  Senor  Doctor 
fiercely  said : 

"Don't  stand  there  making  the  monkey  of  me, 
you  mountain  jades!  Quito,  de  ahi!  Pronto! 
Get  the  peasants'  brat  into  his  jacket  and  alpagartas, 
and  wrap  him  warmly  in  his  shawl.  I  desire  to 
get  out  of  this  accursed  hole  as  quick  as  possible. 
It  smells  bad,  and  I  itch.  The  place  is  lousy !  " 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  the  great  harsh  fist  of  the  hidalgo  doctor 
Jacinto  Ouesada,  who  was  then  ten  years  old,  put 
his  little  trembling  hand  and  went  down  the  moun- 
tains, and  entered  a  new  world. 

The  casa  of  Don  Jaime  was  large,  decayed,  dingy, 
and  full  of  lizards  that  lived  between  the  crumbling 
adobe  bricks.  But  it  seemed  to  Jacinto  Quesada  a 
sumptuous  palace.  Besides  the  hidalgo  doctor, 
there  lived  in  the  sumptuous  palace  two  old  serv- 
ants and  a  pretty  little  girl  with  golden  hair  and 
legs  round  and  pudgy  as  would  have  been  the  legs 
of  Jacinto,  had  his  father  lived  and  prospered. 

In  the  great  rooms  that  were  so  bare  with  poverty, 
the  two  children  played  together.  The  eyes  of  the 
little  Jacinto,  alert  to  see  all  in  this  new  strange- 
ness, had  noted  a  peculiar  thing.  One  day  he  said 
to  Felicidad : 

"Do  you  love  your  father,  the  Senor  Doctor?" 

The  child  knuckled  her  brow. 

"It  is  not  the  love,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "Don 
Jaime  is  a  very  grand  and  haughty  hidalgo ;  it  is  not 
his  desire  that  I  should  love  him.  But  I  fear  him 
much !  " 

Came  a  day  when  Felicidad  was  very  naughty. 
She  tore  leaves  from  the  huge  old  sheepskin-bound 
books  in  the  great  gloomy  library,  and  cut  them  into 
paper  dolls.  It  was  Don  Jaime's  one  delight  to 
read  and  reread,  in  the  long  hot  afternoons,  those 


12  THE  WOLF-CUB 

yellow-leaved,  richly  illuminated  ancient  volumes. 
Pedro,  one  of  the  old  servants,  informed  the  doctor 
of  Felicidad's  naughtiness.  The  doctor's  face  went 
ashy ;  he  shook  all  over  with  rage.  He  brought  out 
a  short  whip  of  horsehide,  a  quirta  such  as  vaqueros 
use.  With  the  quirta  he  lashed  Felicidad's  legs 
and  back  unmercifully. 

Her  screams  drove  like  knives  into  little  Jacinto 
Quesada's  heart.  He  was  but  ten  years  old  and  he 
was  much  afraid  of  the  terrible  hidalgo.  But  as 
the  whip  pitilessly  descended  again  and  again,  and 
Felicidad  screamed  and  writhed  in  agony,  a  hot 
anger  welled  up  in  him;  he  became  desperate  as 
only  a  child  becomes  desperate;  he  went  mad. 

Screaming  himself,  he  charged  at  the  doctor 
and  tore  at  his  trousers  with  his  finger  nails,  and 
tried  to  leap  up  and  upon  him.  The  quirta  rose 
again  and  fell  upon  his  head.  Then  he  caught  at 
the  doctor's  wrist  and  sunk  his  teeth  into  it.  With 
bulldog  tenacity  he  hung  on,  until  he  was  beaten 
into  insensibility,  and  his  jaws  forced  open. 

Strangely,  Don  Jaime  conceived  a  sort  of  liking 
for  Jacinto  Quesada  after  that.  He  took  to  call- 
ing him  The  Little  Wolf  of  the  Mountains.  It 
became  his  wont  to  greet  Jacinto,  when  he  stumbled 
across  him  in  the  great  bare  house,  with  a  look  of 
savage  admiration  and  the  words : 

"Ah,  here  is  the  wolf-cub!  And  how  are  the 
fangs  to-day,  hungry  scrawny  one  ?  " 

Upon  a  time,  Don  Jaime,  his  hand  still  in  band- 
ages, discovered  Jacinto  alone  in  the  dusky  library, 
bent  over  a  quaint  old  account  of  the  battles  and 
triumphs  of  the  swineherd  Pizarro. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  13 

"When  did  you  learn  to  read,  son  of  a  mangy 
she-wolf?  "  asked  the  doctor  in  great  surprise. 

"When  I  was  but  five.  My  mother  taught  me 
letters.  She  is  a  woman  of  honest  birth  and  of 
education,"  answered  Jacinto  proudly.  "When  she 
was  a  child,  she  was  sent  to  the  convent  of  Santa 
Ursola  in  Granada." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  this  swashbuckler, 
Pizarro?  He  robbed  the  Indians  of  their  golden 
suns  and  chalices  and  their  silver  bars,  without 
morality  and  without  ruth,  did  he  not?  But — do 
you  think  him  cruel  ?  " 

The  boy  nodded  his  head  slowly.  Then  with  the 
oldish  quaintness  of  a  book-bitten  child,  he  ex- 
plained : 

"I  do  think  him  cruel,  mi  senor  don.  But  he 
would  not  have  been  Pizarro  had  he  been  soft- 
handed  and  pitiful.  He  led  three  hundred  and 
fifty  Spanish  caballeros  and  four  thousand  Indians 
deep  into  the  Cordilleras.  About  him  were  the 
millions  of  the  Inca  Empire.  If  he  had  been  less 
brave,  less  strong,  less  cruel,  those  many  Peru- 
vians would  have  swirled  about  him  like  the  waters 
of  an  ocean,  and  engulfed  him  and  his  poor  few 
Conquistadores.  But  he  knew  how  to  be  most 
cruel.  That  was  why  he  conquered.  That  was 
why  he  was  altogether  the  great  captain !  " 

When  first  he  discovered  Jacinto  in  his  library, 
Don  Jaime  had  been  of  the  mind  to  send  him  bun- 
dling, and  to  lock  the  door  between  the  peasant  boy 
and  his  precious  old  books.  Now  he  turned  about 
abruptly,  said  "Humph ! "  and  went  thoughtfully 
away. 


14  THE  WOLF-CUB 

At  last,  came  an  arriero  to  take  Jacinto  Quesada 
back  to  Minas  de  la  Sierra.  She  stood  beside  the 
mule  upon  which  Jacinto  mounted,  the  golden- 
haired  little  Felicidad,  and  held  up  her  small  fat 
hands  for  him  to  kiss.  The  hidalgo  doctor  watched 
his  departure  from  the  dark  of  the  doorway.  He 
looked  after  the  great  dust-cloud  on  the  brown 
road  for  a  long  time. 

"The  Little  Wolf!"  he  muttered  in  his  morose 
way.  "He  was  as  famished  for  knowledge  as  he 
was  for  food.  He  would  have  gone  blind  if  he 
lingered  in  my  library  much  longer.  To  see  him 
rip  the  entrails  out  of  Bernal  Diaz's  'Cortes'  and  the 
Lives  of  Balboa,  De  Soto,  Coronado — what  a  joy! 
He  has  eyes  of  gold  for  seeing  things  clearly — 
for  seeing  beyond  good  and  evil.  And  he  has  a 
heart  of  fire,  he  has  gusto,  that  Spanish  boy!  Pi- 
sarro  was  cruel,  but  he  was  great,  he  was  magnifi- 
cent, because  he  was  cruel!  What  a  Spanish  an- 
swer! 

"For  los  Clavos  de  Crist o!  he  will  go  far,  that 
mountain  brat!  He  will  be  a  great  realist  and 
philosopher  like  Cervantes.  Or  he  will  be  a  great 
dramatist  like  Lope  de  Vega.  Or  a  great  poet  or 
statesman.  Or  a  great  captain  like  the  Conquista- 
dores  whose  lives  he  studied  with  such  gusto  and 
whose  strength  he  analyzed  with  such  clear-sight- 
edness !  " 

Then  Don  Jaime  smiled  very  bitterly.  For  the 
moment  he  had  forgotten  that  his  Jacinto  Quesada 
had  been  born  a  Spaniard  of  the  people.  He  swore 
a  vile  oath. 

"But  no,  he  will  be  none  of  those  things !  "  he 


THE  WOLF-CUB  i$ 

said.  "Cascaras!  I  am  becoming  an  old  driveling 
fool." 

Don  Jaime  knew  that  God  smiles  sardonically 
upon  the  Spaniard  of  the  people  who  seeks  to  rise 
in  the  world.  He  knew  that,  just  as  the  United 
States  is  a  country  of  unlimited  opportunities,  just 
so  is  Spain  a  country  of  opportunities  limited  and 
few.  The  Spaniard  of  the  people,  strong  with 
heart  and  gusto,  has  but  two  careers  open  to  him. 
By  those  two  careers  and  those  two  careers  only, 
can  your  ambitious  Iberian  attain  to  fame  and  for- 
tune, and  stand  greatly  above  his  countrymen. 

"He  will  become  a  bullfighter,  perhaps ! "  said 
Don  Jaime. 

Every  man  and  boy  in  Spain  is  an  aficionado,  a 
bullfight  "fan,"  a  frantic  bullfight  "bug."  The  suc- 
cessful bullfighter,  be  he  matador,  or  murderer  of 
bulls,  or  only  a  peon  of  the  cnadrilla,  is  given  rich 
food  with  which  to  garnish  his  belly ;  he  learns  how 
gold  feels  when  it  is  minted  into  money;  his  photo- 
graphs are  purchased  by  romantic  sefioritas;  and 
wherever  he  goes,  he  is  followed  by  crowds  of  tat- 
tered street  urchins  who  studiously  and  hopefully  ape 
his  swagger.  The  whole  universe  salves  and  butters 
him  with  admiration  and  envy ;  and  he,  the  popular 
picador  or  the  distinguished  cspada,  is  in  many  ways 
more  truly  a  king  of  Spain  than  is  Alfonso  the  King. 
Jacinto  Quesada,  he  of  the  heart  of  fire  and  the 
great  gusto,  might  become  a  bullfighter. 

But  suddenly  Don  Jaime  remembered  that  the 
little  Jacinto  was  a  boy  of  the  desolate  mountains. 
He  could  never  see  the  great  bullfights  of  the  cities 
of  the  plains,  those  great  bullfights  so  golden  with 


id  THE  WOLF-CUB 

glamor.  Hence  never  would  be  waked  in  him  the 
ambition  to  become  a  bullfighter. 

"Ea  puesl "  said  Don  Jaime  with  grimness. 
"Well,  then !  There  is  naught  for  my  Jacinto  to  do 
but  to  become  a  bandolero!  " 

The  bandolero  sells  no  photographs  of  himself; 
he  goes  houseless  in  the  wind  and  rain ;  he  bites  upon 
gold  coins  but  rarely;  he  is  hunted  persistently  by 
the  Spanish  police.  And  yet,  from  day  to  day,  his 
deeds  have  their  place  in  the  Hispanic  newspapers; 
he  is  the  hero  of  a  thousand  household  stories  and 
ballads;  the  people  give  him  the  fat  of  the  country- 
side to  eat ;  the  people  love  him  more  even  than  once 
they  loved  that  greatest  of  all  bullfighters,  the  negro 
Frascuelo ! 

"Quita !  "  exclaimed  Don  Jaime,  chuckling.  "God 
forbid !  "  It  had  struck  him  that  he  might  live  to 
the  day  when  people  would  say  in  his  hearing: 
"Jacinto  Ouesada?  Ah,  he  is  good,  he  is  brave, 
he  is  like  the  very  God  Himself.  Watch  over  him 
in  the  mountains,  Mary,  Queen  of  Angels!  and  pro- 
tect him  from  the  Guardia  Civil  and  from  treach- 
ery ! "  And  he,  Torreblanca  y  Moncada,  the 
prophet  who,  years  before,  had  seen  his  vision, 
would  laugh  and  they  would  wonder  why  he 
laughed. 

A  bandolero  is  a  Spanish  highwayman,  a  Spanish 
Dick  Turpin,  a  Spanish  Robin  Hood.  He  is  a 
man  of  a  type  altogether  extinct  in  countries  less 
backward  than  Spain.  In  Spain  the  type  has  per- 
sisted for  five  hundred  years  and  still  continues  to 
persist.  In  Spain  the  type  is  obstinate,  ineradica- 
ble. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  17 

Jose  Maria  was  a  Spanish  bandolero.  Diego  Cor- 
rientes,  he  who  was  loved  by  a  duchess,  was  a  Span- 
ish bandolero.  And  Spanish  bandoleros  were 
Visco  el  Borje,  Agua-Dulce,  Joaquin  Camargo, 
nicknamed  El  Vivillo,  and  Females,  the  blond  beast 
of  prey.  The  bandolero  is  the  blight  of  Spain.  But 
countries  that  have  been  exploited  by  Spaniards  are 
also  affected  with  the  Spanish  blight.  A  bandolero 
of  Mexico  is  Zapata.  And  a  Mexican  bandolero  is 
Pancho  Villa,  too. 

One  wintry  gloaming  of  Jacinto  Quesada's  thir- 
teenth year,  there  entered  Minas  de  la  Sierra  a 
ruddy-haired,  blue-eyed,  burly  man  on  horseback. 
He  was  clad  in  weather-worn  corduroys;  a  week's 
golden  stubble  was  on  his  broad,  sunburned  face; 
and  his  body  smelled  sourly  of  sweat.  He  guided 
his  horse  with  his  knees  and  heels.  In  both  hands 
he  held  half-raised  a  Mauser  carbine. 

The  horse  halted  under  the  cork-oak,  but  the 
man  did  not  dismount.  He  sat  looking  slowly  from 
right  to  left,  from  left  to  right,  along  the  village 
street.  Presently  he  shouted : 

"Hola,  mis  paisanos!  Why  do  you  not  come  out 
to  greet  me?  " 

With  trembling  and  hesitation  they  came  forth 
from  their  doorways.  They  were  like  so  many 
wary  brown  lizards  stealing  out  from  their  rocks. 
They  formed  a  tongue-tied  ring  about  the  quiet 
horseman  and  eyed  him  with  awe. 

"I  desire  food,"  said  he  shortly. 

"It  is  our  wish  to  serve  you,  maestro/'  said 
Antonio  Villarobledo,  speaking  for  the  rest.  "You 
shall  have  the  best  of  our  poor  lean  store." 


i8  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Then  spoke  up  Carlos  Machado,  a  showy  and  pre- 
sumptuous man. 

"Come  to  my  house  with  me.  I  have  a  stew  of 
lentils!" 

"But  I  have  a  puchero!"  another  bid.  "Come 
with  me,  Gran  Caballero." 

Suddenly  a  woman  who  had  been  hiding  in  her 
doorway  ran  out  into  the  street,  crying  shrilly : 

"Do  not  listen  to  these  selfish  stingy  Moors,  maes- 
tro! Come  with  me — I  will  kill  a  pullet  for  you, 
the  last  of  my  lot!  Come  with  me,  I  beg  you, 
caballerete!  To  ask  you  to  be  my  guest,  I  have  the 
supreme  right.  My  husband  was  the  last  man  of 
the  village  to  be  murdered  by  the  Guardia  Civil !  " 

Carlos  Machado  and  certain  others  turned  wrath- 
ful faces  toward  Juan  Quesada's  widow.  But  she 
had,  indeed,  the  supreme  right,  and  they  dared  make 
no  objection  when  the  corduroy-clad  cabalgador  said 
most  heartily : 

"Well  spoken,  woman!  I  will  go  with  you. 
Your  husband  shall  not  have  been  murdered  in  vain 
and  your  pullet  lived  to  no  good  purpose !  " 

Then  he  laughed  in  the  faces  of  the  others  and 
said  with  sudden  imperiousness : 

"Bring  your  lentils  and  your  puchero  to  the 
widow's  casa,  mis  paisanos!  My  appetite  is  the 
most  gorgeous  appetite  in  Spain,  and  all  you  have 
will  not  be  too  much  for  me.  Besides  you  will  do 
well  to  fat  me  up,  you  Spaniards !  " 

He  dismounted  and  followed  Jacinto  Quesada's 
mother,  giving  instructions  to  certain  of  the  vil- 
lagers as  to  how  they  should  water  and  fodder  his 
horse. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHEN  his  mother  went  out  on  the  mountainside 
to  catch  and  to  kill  the  last  surviving  chicken, 
Jacinto  Quesada  went  with  her  both  to  lend  her  a 
hand  and  to  ask  her  a  question.  She  held  the  pullet 
to  the  block  and  Jacinto  raised  the  axe.  Then,  the 
axe  poised  aloft,  Jacinto  asked: 

"Who  is  this  rough  burly  man  to  whom  the  people 
do  such  honor?  " 

"He  is  the  great  Pernales !  " 

The  axe  descended;  blood  spattered  the  faces  of 
the  two;  the  head  of  the  pullet  lay  free  from  the 
body  and  still ;  the  body  flapped  about  in  a  manner 
outrageous  and  vile.  Said  Jacinto,  after  a  moment : 

"Pernales,  the  bandolero?  " 

"vSY,  si!  Pernales,  the  bandolero,  him  hunted  for- 
ever by  the  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil !  " 

"But  why  do  not  the  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil 
murder  him  as  they  murdered  our  poor  Juanito  ?  " 

"Art  thou  a  dullard,  child!  Thy  father  was  a 
mere  contrabandista.  Thy  father  wished  only  to 
be  left  undisturbed  by  the  police.  He  was  a  coward 
at  heart  as  are  most  Spaniards  who  turn  dishonest 
that  they  might  eat.  He  suffered  himself  to  be  cap- 
tured without  a  struggle;  there  was  no  murder  in 
his  bowels !  " 

She  swept  on  with  true  Latin  eloquence  and 
fervor : 

"But  this  Pernales!     The  men  of  the  Guardia 


feo  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Civil  fear  Females  as  they  do  not  fear  men  of  your 
poor  father's  sort.  He  is  muscled  like  a  leopard; 
he  is  long  of  arm ;  he  is  deep-loined ;  and  the  strength 
of  him  is  like  the  strength  of  the  first  Spaniard, 
Hispanus,  the  son  of  Hercules.  But  there  is  more 
to  him  than  mere  body  strength!  He  is  possessed 
of  a  strength  above  body  strength,  a  strength  beyond 
body  strength.  He  is  strong  in  his  soul ! 

"He  is  strong  to  live;  he  is  strong  to  conquer;  he 
is  strong  to  make  men  die.  The  bandoleros  are  all 
like  that.  They  are  arrogant,  imperious,  absolute. 
They  are  like  our  ancestors,  the  Cristinos  Viejos,  the 
Old  Rusty  Christians,  they  who  eradicated  the 
Moors  from  Spain.  They  are  like  our  ancestors, 
the  Celtiberians,  they  who  bathed  in  the  urine  of 
horses  that  they  might  grow  hard  and  muscular, 
they  who  asked  for  no  quarter  in  battle  and  who 
gave  none. 

"A  man  to  be  a  bandolero  must  have  entrails  of 
iron.  This  Females  is  of  the  right  guts.  He  likes 
nothing  better  than  to  meet  a  policeman  alone  in  the 
hills  and  to  fight  him  to  the  death.  The  men  of  the 
Guardia  Civil  would  capture  and  slay  him  if  they 
could;  but  when  they  come  up  to  him  on  the  high 
road,  he  turns  and  gives  battle  with  laughter  and 
taunt,  with  ardor,  strength,  desperation,  and  feroc- 
ity! Never  does  he  hesitate  or  falter  when  comes 
the  supreme  moment — the  moment  when  his  weak- 
ness says  'Be  merciful! '  and  his  strength  says  'Kill 
thou,  Females ! '  " 

His  mother  sped  into  the  house,  but  Jacinto  stood 
by  the  dripping  block,  immersed  in  thought. 

Presently  Jacinto  Quesada  sat  on  his  little  stool 


THE  WOLF-CUB  21 

in  the  far  corner  of  the  great  fireplace  and  watched 
the  bandolero  eat.  What  huge  teeth  he  had  and 
how  white  they  were!  Over  each  mouthful  the 
whole  broad  face  worked,  the  lips  and  cheeks  mak- 
ing a  dozen  grimaces,  the  jaws  snapping  and 
grinding. 

Every  little  while,  the  bandolero  mumbled  from  a 
full  mouth  some  question.  He  seemed  much  inter- 
ested in  the  murdered  Juanito.  But  it  was  almost 
as  though  he  considered  poor  Juanito's  death  a  hu- 
morous mishap;  at  certain  of  the  widow's  remarks 
he  laughed  roughly,  and  his  laughter  stormed 
through  the  cabana  like  a  wind  through  one  of  the 
boulder-strewn  passes  overhead. 

An  hour  later  he  was  astride  his  horse  again  and 
riding  down  the  goat-path  that  dropped  away  from 
Minas  de  la  Sierra  and  wound  through  the  lower 
gorges.  It  is  never  the  habit  of  the  bandolero  to 
linger  in  a  pueblo  or  village  longer  than  a  very  short 
time;  most  sensational  and  brief  and  furtive  are  his 
visits. 

There  was  a  fat  and  brilliant  moon,  that  night. 
It  was  as  though  a  snow  had  fallen,  the  heads  and 
shoulders  of  the  mountains  were  so  white.  Down 
into  the  dark  moaning  gorges,  one  could  see  a  great 
distance. 

Pernales  walked  his  horse  very  slowly,  for  the 
path  led  along  the  sheer  of  a  precipice.  But  while 
he  kept  a  vigilant  eye  on  the  way  ahead,  ready  to 
throw  himself  toward  the  wall  of  the  gorge  should 
the  nag  stumble  on  a  loose  stone,  or  shy  from  the 
path,  and  plunge  screaming  into  nothingness,  Per- 
nales continually  cast  wary  quick  glances  toward  the 


22  THE  WOLF-CUB 

crags  and  boulders  overhead,  and  continually  bent 
his  ear  back  the  way  he  had  come.  It  was  almost 
as  though  he  feared  an  ambush  in  that  lonely  peril- 
ous place.  It  was  almost  as  if,  at  any  moment,  he 
expected  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  to  rise  from  be- 
hind every  rock,  and  the  command  of  the  Guardia 
Civil  to  sound  in  his  ears : 

"Alto  a  la  Guardia  Civil!  " 

He  rounded  a  great  rock  that  threatened  to  tear 
from  its  moorings  down  into  the  winding  gorge 
below.  Abruptly  he  halted  his  horse  and  his  carbine 
came  up.  A  long  tense  hush.  Then  suddenly  he 
exploded : 

"Who  are  you  that  stands  beside  the  way  ?  " 

Came  the  answer  in  a  child's  thin  voice : 

"Jacinto  Quesada !  " 

Minas  de  la  Sierra  was  a  long  distance  above  and 
far  back  in  the  sierras.  With  great  surprise  the 
bandolero  recognized  the  child  to  whom  he  had 
waved  a  hand  and  called  a  laughing  "a  Dios"  some 
time  before. 

"Are  you  alone?"     The  carbine  still  threatened. 

"See  for  yourself,  maestro !  But  I  am  altogether 
alone." 

The  bandolero  rode  nearer.  When  the  horse 
shouldered  up,  the  little  Jacinto  was  compelled  to 
squeeze  into  the  very  crevices  of  the  rock  wall,  so 
narrow  was  the  path. 

From  his  lofty  seat  on  the  big,  rawboned  black 
horse,  Pernales  looked  down  at  the  son  of  the  widow 
Quesada  and  measured,  with  his  eyes,  the  boy's  ex- 
treme youth  fulness  and  preposterous  lack  of  strength 
and  size.  Jacinto  was  only  thirteen  years  old. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  23 

What  he  saw  altogether  reassured  Pernales.  His 
blue  eyes  twinkled;  he  smiled;  he  grinned,  his  lips 
working  and  twitching;  and  at  last  he  broke  out  in 
a  frank  and  free  burst  of  laughter. 

"Cascaras !  "  he  roared,  between  guffaws.  "How 
came  you  here,  lively  little  one?  Have  you  the 
sharp  hoofs  of  the  ibex  to  gallop  you  from  crag  to 
crag,  across  gorges  and  gargantas  and  all?  Or 
have  you  the  griffon  vulture's  wings  that  you  may 
fly  over  mountains  ?  You  are  no  real  flesh  and  blood 
child !  You  are  a  sprite,  a — " 

Jacinto  Quesada,  imperious  with  a  great  desire, 
brushed  his  bantering  words  aside.  Trembling  with 
eagerness,  he  cried : 

"Take  me  with  you,  Pernales!  I  would  be  a 
bandolero,  too!  Lift  me  up  behind  you  on  your 
horse,  and  I  will  go  with  you  through  Spain  and  be 
your  companero  and  your  dorado — your  golden  one, 
your  trustworthy  one!  Take  me  with  you,  please, 
please,  Pernales !  " 

The  bandolero  did  not  credit  his  own  ears.  He 
was  too  astounded  to  laugh. 

"Hola!  "  he  gasped.  "What  is  this  now?  You, 
my  chicken,  would  be  a  bandolero !  And  you  came 
all  the  way  down  here  to  recruit  with  me !  Por  los 
Clavos  de  Cristo !  " 

Then  soberly  and  slyly,  for  he  was  beginning  to 
see  good  fun  in  the  little  fellow : 

"But  do  you  not  know  that  it  is  a  rule,  a  conven- 
tion, of  us  good  bandoleros  to  ride  alone?  Solitary 
and  single-handed,  we  are  safer  and  stronger  than 
if  a  troop  of  cabalgadores  surrounded  us.  There  is 
no  one  so  swift  and  slippery  and  elusive  as  a  bando- 


24  THE  WOLF-CUB 

lero  who  rides  alone,  and  no  one  so  free  from  fear 
of  treachery — he  trusts  no  man  and  no  man  he 
dreads." 

"True.  You  understand  your  business,  I  see," 
said  Jacinto  Quesada. 

He  was  only  thirteen;  yet  he  spoke  slowly,  with 
deliberation  and  discernment  and  a  great  air  of 
mannish  profundity.  He  had  got  something  from 
Don  Jaime's  books,  this  mountaineer's  bantling! 

"But  there  are  times,"  he  qualified,  "when  even 
the  most  superb  bandolero  needs  assistance  in  some 
serious  and  signal  business.  Have  you  not  yourself 
a  dorado,  a  camarada,  who  rides  with  you  on  your 
greater  crimes,  the  Nino  de  Arahal?  Certain 
folk  have  told  me  of  the  Nino;  they  said  he  shared 
the  glory  of  those  enterprises  which  made  impera- 
tive a  show  of  numbers  and  strength;  do  not  tell 
me  these  folk  lied!  I  had  hoped  to  dispossess  this 
camarada  and  dorado  of  yours,  this  Nino  de  Arahal, 
and  to  attain  to  the  envied  place  down  from  which 
I  threw  him  headlong ! 

"But  the  Nino,"  he  added,  arrogating  to  himself 
judicial  authority — "let  us  forget  him!  Za!  he  is 
only  an  insignificant  frog!  Your  wish  to  ride  un- 
hindered and  alone,  of  that  I  would  speak!  Maes- 
tro, when  I  become  your  dorado,  we  will  ride  to- 
gether always,  for  we  will  commit  only  imposing 
and  glorious  crimes !  " 

Said  Females  softly: 

"But  how  would  you  dispossess  the  Nino  de 
Arahal?" 

"I  would  pit  against  the  huge  gorilla's  head  of  the 
Little  One  of  Arahal,  my  head  of  gold  for  thinking 


THE  WOLF-CUB  25 

quick  thoughts  and  audacious  ones.  I  would  dis- 
place him  and  replace  him  by  my  natural  superiority 
of  brain.  But  if  that  were  not  enough — Carajo!  I 
would  lock  knives  with  him,  I  would  lunge  and  slash 
and  rip  and  stab  with  my  navaja,  while  he  tore  and 
stabbed  and  slashed  and  lunged  with  his,  until  one  or 
the  other  of  us  gushed  out  his  life  through  his 
wounds  and  was  dead !  " 

Then  it  was  that  Females  laughed  so  that  the  very 
canyon  roared  and  rang.  He  rolled  back  his  head; 
he  clapped  his  hands  to  his  stomach ;  he  opened  his 
mouth  to  its  widest  stretch ;  and  he  guffawed  so  tre- 
mendously that  the  horse  beneath  him  staggered  and 
almost  overbalanced  from  the  wall.  He  was  Olym- 
pian in  his  laughter. 

And  why  not  laugh  ?  Did  he  not  see  in  his  mind's 
eye  the  gigantic  ruffian  nicknamed  the  Nino  de 
Arahal  locked  with  this  stripling,  this  barefoot  child, 
this  suckling  babe?  Za!  The  Nino  would  make 
ten  of  him!  Zape!  The  Nino  would  swallow  him 
at  a  mouthful!  It  was  preposterous!  It  was  so 
funny,  he  cared  not  a  peseta  if  he  laughed  himself  to 
death ! 

But  suddenly,  through  his  laughter,  slid  Jacinto 
Quesada's  low-toned  words: 

"But  if  he  were  altogether  too  huge  and  brawny 
for  me  to  murder  in  open  combat,  then  I  would  mur- 
der him  in  some  hidden,  treacherous  way.  Treach- 
ery is  the  strength  of  the  weak  who  are  yet  strong. 
If  there  be  no  other  way,  the  superior  brain  resorts 
to  treachery  for  the  superior  brain  is  invincible. 
While  I  am  still  weak  of  body,  I  will  not  disdain 
to  use  treachery ! 


*6  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"And,  man,  man,  I  warn  you!  Do  not  continue 
to  laugh  at  me !  You  have  laughed  quite  enough  at 
me,  Pernales !  Cease  laughing  this  instant !  Quick ! 
Straighten  your  face,  or  Porvida!  the  Manchegan 
knife  I  have  with  me,  I  will  use  on  your  horse.  I 
will  rip  open  his  belly;  and  he,  with  you  upon  him, 
will  go  bounding  off  the  path  and  fall  head  over 
heels  down  into  the  abyss !  " 

Instantly  Pernales  sobered.  His  face  set  into  an 
emotionless  mask;  his  teeth  clenched  together  with 
an  audible  click ;  his  eyes  became  hard  as  blue  bright 
pebbles.  Without  seeming  to  do  so,  he  looked  down 
at  the  child's  hands;  and  true!  there  was  in  those 
hands  a  huge,  flat-bladed  dagger,  a  dagger  of  La 
Mancha.  The  child  was  turning  it  over  and  over, 
and  studying  it  with  a  pensive  interest. 

Deep  within  himself,  Pernales  laughed  ironically 
at  his  own  discomfiture.  He  could  not  use  the  car- 
bine. Without  chancing  the  great  risk  of  sending 
his  horse  recoiling  and  reeling  off  the  path,  he  could 
not  strike  down  the  child  with  a  blow  of  his  fist! 
And  the  child  had  but  to  turn  aside  his  gun  or  dodge 
his  hard  fist,  and  crouch  out  of  harm's  way  beneath 
the  horse's  barrel.  Then  might  he  strike  up  with 
the  dagger,  and  the  horse  would  make  the  break- 
neck plunge  as  surely  as  he  would  scream  when 
stabbed. 

"Jacinto  Quesada,"  said  Pernales  bitterly,  "you 
have  caught  Pernales  in  a  pretty  deadfall!  Use 
your  knife;  then  go  for  the  Guardia  Civil  and  guide 
a  brace  of  policemen  to  where  my  body  lies  on  the 
bottom  of  the  gorge,  and  there  awaits  you  the  money 
offered  for  my  head!  Cascaras!  I  judged  you 


THE  WOLF-CUB  27 

altogether  too  superficially;  I  was  too  contemptu- 
ous !  " 

Quietly  Jacinto  Quesada  put  the  Manchegan  knife 
back  in  his  belt. 

"I  forbear  to  strike,"  said  he,  "since  you  have  con- 
fessed your  fault.  Now,  soberly  and  with  due  re- 
spect, give  me  your  answer.  Will  you  take  me 
with  you  ?  " 

A  gleam  of  admiration  lit  the  eye  of  Females. 

"Jacinto  Quesada,"  he  said,  "you  are  no  child. 
You  have  shown  resolution,  force,  finality;  you  are 
altogether  masculine,  altogether  varonil;  you  are  a 
man !  Therefore,  as  one  man  to  another,  I  say :  No, 
I  cannot  take  you  with  me ! " 

Females  now  was  very  serious. 

"To  be  my  dorado,  it  is  not  enough  that  you  have 
a  full-grown  soul.  You  must  have  a  full-grown 
body;  and  your  body  is  still  the  puny,  soft-boned 
body  of  a  child.  If  you  rode  away  with  me,  you  of 
the  weak  body,  your  strong  soul  might  be  sacrificed 
to  the  Nino  de  Arahal  or  the  Guardia  Civil.  And 
that — God  forbid! 

"Let  us  look  at  this  matter  like  two  sensible 
Moors.  Don  Eduardo  Miura,  let  us  suppose,  has  a 
young  fighting  bull  of  extraordinary  promise.  At 
the  Tentadcros  (the  breeders'  private  bullfight, 
when  the  young  bulls  are  ranked  according  to  their 
merit  as  fighting  animals),  this  youngster  shows 
superb  courage  and  astounding  ferocity.  But  he  is 
only  two  years  old;  and  five  years  old  must  be  the 
age  of  Don  Eduardo's  animals  before  he  exhibits 
them  in  the  Plaza  de  Toros.  Does  Don  Eduardo 
make  an  exception  of  this  unique  bull,  does  he  allow 


28  '  THE  WOLF-CUB 

him  because  of  his  astounding  ferocity  to  have  a 
premature  debut  in  the  bullring?  Name  of  God, 
no !  Not  even  if  he  be  as  magnificent  with  meat  as 
the  most  mature  seven-year-old! 

"Jacinto  Quesada,  quickly  I  have  grown  to  love 
your  strong  soul — I  have  grown  to  love  your  strong 
soul  too  much.  And  that  is  why  I  say,  I  cannot  take 
you  with  me.  No!  Porvida,  no!  But,  if  you  are 
resentful,  use  your  knife  and  send  me  whirling  down 
into  the  gorge.  Proceed !  I  care  not  a  peseta  what 
you  do." 

Jacinto  Quesada  stood  motionless  as  a  rock,  think- 
ing deeply.  Something  in  the  boy's  downcast  atti- 
tude moved  Pernales  to  pity. 

"Do  not  despair,  my  fire-hearted,  arrogante  little 
man,"  he  said  presently.  "I  have  said  no;  this  time 
my  no  is  absolute;  but  I  shall  not  say  no  to  you, 
should  I  pass  this  way  again  when  you  are  more 
fully  grown.  Some  day,  I  promise  you,  I  shall 
again  pass  this  way,  and  then  if  you  are  still  of  the 
mind  to  be  my  dorado,  you  may  join  out  with  me 
and  we  will  murder  the  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil 
together,  two  sworn  companeros.  Meanwhile,  grow 
brawny,  grow  brave,  grow  high-handed.  There  will 
always  be  room  in  Spain  for  haughty  resolute  ones 
like  you !  " 

"I  accept  the  promise  given,"  said  Jacinto  Que- 
sada. "And  I  do  not  ask  you  to  swear  to  return 
for  me — a  word  is  enough  between  men.  Now, 
knowing  you  will  come  back,  I  will  compose  myself 
and  wait.  A  child  is  impetuous  and  fretful ;  a  man 
is  implacable  yet  patient." 

"Son  of  the  widow  Quesada,"  returned  Pernales 


THE  WOLF-CUB  29 

magnificently,  "on  the  promise  given  and  taken,  let 
us  strike  hands !  With  a  handshake,  like  two  true 
Spaniards,  we  will  bind  the  bargain." 

Jacinto  Quesada  took  his  hand  off  the  hilt  of  his 
Manchegan  navaja  and  gripped  claws  with  the 
bandolero.  A  certain  note  of  solemnity  thrilled 
through  the  moment. 

The  bandolero  started  on. 

"Go  thou  with  God,  companero !  "  said  Jacinto 
Quesada. 

"Grow  big,  grow  strong,  thou !  "  said  the  great 
Pernales. 


CHAPTER  IV 

JACINTO  QUESADA  grew  bigger,  stronger.  But  he 
suffered  more  with  ambition  than  with  growing 
pains.  Ambition  is  the  seed  of  greatness,  but  the 
seed  cannot  germinate  and  bourgeon  without  giving 
agony  and  labor  to  the  soil  in  which  it  is  nurtured. 

Females  did  not  again  pass  that  way.  Three 
months  had  not  intervened,  since  the  promise  to  re- 
turn had  been  given,  when  the  great  bandolero  was 
murdered  for  the  reward  by  a  Gallego  on  a  lonely 
hill-road  in  the  Asturias — shot  through  the  head  at 
forty  yards. 

Now,  if  never  could  Jacinto  Quesada  ride  with 
Pernales,  then  by  the  Life!  he  would  ride  alone. 

When  at  last  he  attained  to  manhood,  he  went 
down  the  mountains,  stole  a  carbine  and  a  horse,  and 
became  a  bandolero  errant  and  free. 

He  had  hands  of  gold,  that  fire-hearted  Spanish 
boy,  for  sticking  up  a  troop  of  caballeros  and  their 
ladies  out  for  a  merienda  or  a  bull-baiting  on  the 
parched  plains  about  Madrid.  And  he  had  hands 
of  gold  for  sticking  up  a  diligence  full  of  notables  in 
the  savage  defiles  of  the  Sierra  de  Guadalupe  or  the 
Sierra  de  Credos  or  the  Sierra  de  Guadarrama. 
And  he  had  courage  and  originality.  Why,  he  was 
still  a  mere  novice  as  a  bandolero,  an  apprentice 
hand,  a  novillero,  when  he  took  it  into  that  round, 
young,  handsome  and  arrogant  Spanish  head  of  his 
to  waylay  and  loot  the  Seville-to-Madrid  Express! 


THE  WOLF-CUB  f  i 

Spanish  highwaymen,  you  must  know,  are  not  in 
the  habit  of  holding  up  passenger  trains.  To  way- 
lay a  lone  muleteer  in  the  mountains,  to  halt  and  rob 
a  party  of  itinerant  guitarists  and  dancers,  or  to 
pillage  the  hacienda  of  a  rich  rural  cattle  breeder  arc 
the  conventional  things  to  do.  But  to  hold  up  the 
Seville-to-Madrid — it  is  unthinkable,  it  is  not  the 
will  of  God!  Spanish  highwaymen  prefer  to  do 
less  spectacular  deeds  and  to  live  to  see  their  grand- 
children. 

In  the  province  of  Ciudad  Real,  the  Seville-to- 
Madrid  Express  crosses  the  river  Zancura  by  means 
of  a  safe  and  modern  steel  cantilever  bridge  built 
by  Le  Brun,  a  French  engineer.  And  a  half  hour 
before  it  reaches  this  steel  bridge,  the  Seville-to- 
Madrid  crosses  another  bridge,  a  bridge  over  a  small 
tributary  of  the  Zancura  which  is  dry  three  fourths 
of  the  year.  This  bridge  is  not  of  steel;  it  is  tim- 
bered. It  was  never  built  by  Le  Brun ;  it  is  flimsy, 
weatherworn,  and  liable  to  give  under  any  unusual 
strain.  It  is  called  the  Arroyo  Seco  Bridge. 

Here,  where  the  Arroyo  Seco  lies  like  a  great 
brown  gutter  across  the  world,  are  the  high  para- 
meras  of  La  Mancha.  There  are  no  more  desolate 
and  lonely  uplands  in  all  Spain.  Swarthy,  sun- 
scorched  and  thirsty,  they  torture  the  eye  with  dusty 
dun  distances  and  prone  dun  lines.  You  would 
think  it  an  altogether  unlikely  place  for  a  bandolero 
to  stage  a  hold-up. 

And  here,  a  hundred  yards  below  the  Arroyo  Seco 
bridge  and  close  beside  the  railroad  track,  waited 
Jacinto  Quesada  one  hot,  dry,  windless  afternoon. 
He  was  seated  upon  a  small  sleek  mouse-colored 


3«  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Manchegan  pony.  He  wore  corduroy  leggins,  a 
sheepskin  zamarra,  and  a  Cordovan  sombrero  that 
had  once  been  white.  His  dress  was  that  of  the 
typical  Manchegan  herdsman.  He  looked  like  any 
one  of  the  hundred  or  more  vaqueros  who  lived  the 
wild  lonely  life  of  the  cattle  country  roundabout. 

The  Seville-to-Madrid  showed  in  the  southwest. 
Like  a  somber  black  snake  it  crawled  slowly  forward 
— like  a  black  snake  laggard  and  heavy  after  a  great 
dinner  of  mice. 

Spanish  passenger  trains  are  altogether  unlike 
American  passenger  trains,  for  American  passenger 
trains  eat  up  distances  like  the  brazen  cars  of  old 
Northern  gods.  The  passenger  trains  of  Spain  are 
most  deliberate  and  slow.  They  halt  for  ten 
minutes  at  every  wayside  station,  for  no  better 
reason  than  to  allow  the  passengers  to  alight,  un- 
limber  their  legs,  and  smoke  the  eternal  cigarette. 
They  are  the  very  crawling  snails  of  the  earth ! 

Of  course,  the  Seville-to-Madrid  was  an  express, 
a  through  train.  But  you  may  be  sure  she  was  no 
fast  train  except  when  viewed  through  Spanish  eyes. 
At  fifteen  miles  the  hour,  morosely  it  crawled  on. 
It  neared  the  waiting  Jacinto  Quesada  and,  fearful 
of  the  flimsy  wooden  bridge  beyond,  slackened  its 
pace  to  a  painful  glacier-slow  flow. 

As  the  wheezing  locomotive  lumbered  up,  Jacinto 
Quesada,  with  knees  and  one  hand,  held  the  shud- 
dering pony  motionless  beside  the  track.  The  other 
hand  he  raised  aloft.  Pointedly,  his  eyes  turned  to 
that  upraised  hand;  then  to  the  locomotive's  cab; 
then  significantly,  to  the  upflung  hand  once  again. 

The  engine  driver,  one  arm  extended  to  the  throt- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  33 

tie,  a  blue-smoking  cigarette  between  his  lips,  leaned 
far  out  the  cab  and  looked  down  at  the  uplifted  hand 
of  Jacinto  Quesada.  In  that  significantly  uplifted 
hand  of  Jacinto  Quesada  was  an  unlighted  cigarette. 

Now,  an  American  engineer  would  have  passed 
unheeding  by,  with  perhaps  a  curse  for  Jacinto  Que- 
sada as  an  arrant  fool.  Again,  a  French  engineer 
might  have  called  back :  "It  is  a  pleasure !  "  and 
thrown  down  a  paper  of  matches.  For,  as  it  was 
plain  to  see,  Jacinto  Quesada  was  requesting,  in 
pantomime,  a  spark  to  ignite  his  hopelessly  dead  slim 
cylinder  of  tobacco. 

But  the  Spanish  engine  driver  did  neither  of  those 
two  things.  It  is  not  that  the  Iberians  are  not  as 
polite  as  the  French ;  they  are  more  polite  and  alto- 
gether more  ceremonious.  Know  you  that  in  Spain, 
and  also  in  Mexico,  it  is  considered  something  of  an 
insult  to  proffer  a  man  matches  when  he  requests  a 
light  of  you  and  you  yourself  are  smoking.  It  is 
as  though  you  consider  him  socially  beneath  you, 
when  you  proffer  him  matches. 

The  locomotive  lumbered  by.  But  the  engine 
driver  crowded  forward  on  his  seat;  his  arms 
worked;  the  whistle  shrieked.  And  the  train 
groaned  and  jolted,  roared  and  banged  to  a  full  stop. 

Passengers  telescoped  themselves  out  of  windows, 
some  knocked  all  a-scramble  by  the  sudden  halt, 
others  pale  and  frightened.  Those  heads  that  pro- 
truded from  fortunate  windows  saw  the  engine 
driver  clamber  down  from  his  high  turret,  a  lighted 
cigarette  in  his  hand.  And  they  saw  spur  forward 
to  meet  him,  the  dusty  vaquero,  in  his  mouth  a 
cigarette  that  was  dead. 


34  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  vaquero  flung  himself  from  his  pony.  He 
and  the  engine  driver  drew  together.  A  hand  of 
each  met,  became  entwined.  Their  heads  leaned 
close,  the  cigarettes  between  their  teeth  touching 
ends. 

Suddenly  the  engine  driver  staggered  away  from 
the  vaquero,  his  jaw  dropping,  his  cigarette  falling 
unheeded  to  the  ground.  A  huge  long-barrelled 
revolver  in  the  hand  of  the  vaquero  was  nuzzling 
his  umbilicus. 

"Aupa!"  shouted  the  vaquero  harshly.     "Up!" 

Prodding  his  belly  persistently,  the  vaquero  fol- 
lowed him  back,  step  by  step.  The  engine  driver 
was  suddenly  enlightened.  It  was  all  a  piece  of 
herdsmen's  buffoonery,  a  monstrous  practical  joke! 

"Benito !  "  he  roared,  addressing  his  stoker  in  the 
cab  above.  "Benito,  look  down !  Here  is  a  vaquero 
who  thinks  himself  a  salteador  dc  camino,  a  bando- 
lero like  the  poor  dead  Pernales  or  that  new  man, 
Jacinto  Quesada!  For  los  Clavos  de  Cristo!  what 
a  fool's  idea !  " 

Then  to  the  vaquero.  "Don't  you  know  I  have  no 
time  for  horseplay,  you  silly  one,  you  buffoon,  you  ? 
You  are  making  yourself  liable  to  arrest!  " 

"I  am  the  new  man,  Jacinto  Quesada ! "  said 
Jacinto  Quesada  with  politeness  and  reserve. 
Then.  "Aupa,  aupa !  " 

"Jacinto  Quesada — Almighty  God !  "  gasped  the 
engine  driver.  Only  he  made  it,  "Todopoderoso 
Dio  f "  and  he  groaned  it  out  slowly. 

But  with  great  alacrity  he  put  up  his  hands. 

Then  after  a  moment,  stuttering  with  fright,  he 
commenced  objecting. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  55 

"But  caballerete — but  Don  Jacinto — " 

"What  would  you?" 

"But  you  cannot  hold  up  the  Seville-to-Madrid ! 
No  one  ever  holds  up  the  Seville-to-Madrid!  And 
besides,  you  are  alone !  " 

"But  I  am  not  alone,"  returned  Jacinto  Ouesada. 

Nor  was  he.  Out  of  the  Arroyo  Seco,  a  hundred 
yards  up  the  track,  three  men  as  drab  and  dusty  as 
he  had  poked  their  dishevelled  heads. 

Shouted  Ouesada,  "Adelante,  mis  dorados !  The 
stew  is  ready,  approach  the  bowl!  Forward,  my 
golden  ones ! " 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  Golden  Ones  approached  at  a  run,  showing 
in  their  hands  carbines  of  no  recent  fashion.  They 
were  rough-bearded  fellows  of  impetuous  courage 
but  of  little  skill  or  fame;  reckless  scapegraces  whom 
he  had  picked  up,  on  the  plains  and  in  the  moun- 
tains, to  reinforce  him  in  this  most  pretentious  and 
uncommon  hold-up. 

After  the  consummation  of  the  deed,  they  would 
go  their  ways  and  he  his.  Like  most  Spanish 
bandoleros  en  grande,  Jacinto  Quesada  preferred, 
whenever  he  could,  to  keep  his  heels  clean  of  con- 
federates and  coadjutors ;  he  preferred  to  hold  him- 
self aloof  and  solitary.  However,  they  were  his 
companeros  for  the  nonce ;  for  the  nonce,  they  were 
his  dorados,  his  golden,  his  trustworthy  ones. 

One  of  them  clambered  up  into  the  cab  after  the 
fireman,  Benito.  The  rest,  under  the  supervision  of 
Jacinto  Quesada,  proceeded  to  turn  inside  out  the 
Seville-to-Madrid. 

Pretentious  train  robberies  are  forever  much 
alike.  Save  that  those  waylaid  and  despoiled  were 
Spaniards,  and  Spaniards  are  eternally  themselves, 
and  their  souls  glow  frankly  and  incandescently  out 
through  their  bodies  in  everything  they  do,  the 
hold-up  of  the  Seville-to-Madrid  was  like  an  Ameri- 
can train  robbery,  like  a  train  robbery  anywhere. 

The  mail  coach  was  first  disposed  of.  Then  the 
highwaymen  turned  their  attention  to  the  passen- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  37 

gers.  In  a  jostling,  milling,  frightened  drove  on 
the  open  plain  to  the  right  of  the  stalled  coaches, 
the  passengers  were  herded  by  the  four  taciturn 
workmanlike  bandoleros.  Then  one  by  one  each 
passenger  was  led  forward  from  the  rest  and 
searched  for  money  and  valuables. 

Those  who  were  cowardly,  quaked  and  walked 
knock-kneed,  their  mouths  stuttering  rapid  prayers. 
Those  who  were  courageous  but  overawed,  clenched 
their  teeth  in  their  lips,  held  their  eyes  pasted  upon 
the  bandoleros,  and  did  silently  and  with  utter  obedi- 
ence that  which  they  were  told  to  do.  Those  who 
were  weak,  wept.  Few  words  were  said,  yet  the 
faces  of  all  were  as  a  loudly  chanted  litany  of 
dreads. 

Jacinto  Quesada  took  little  part  in  the  searching; 
he  left  that  to  his  journeymen.  He  stood  aloof, 
his  revolver  in  hand,  his  eyes  studying  pensively, 
as  they  were  put  to  the  search,  the  demeanor  of  the 
brave  and  the  base. 

Many  of  the  herded  and  driven  and  robbed  won- 
dered at  this  boy  with  no  vestige  of  hair  on  his 
smooth  brown  cheeks.  They  did  not  know  him. 
They  thought  Jacinto  Quesada,  he  who  had  begun 
making  such  a  great  noise  through  Spain,  one  of  the 
bearded,  black-visaged,  older  men. 

First  to  be  led  forward  and  made  to  deliver  was 
a  traveler  for  a  Barcelona  manufactory.  Then 
came  two  brokers  who  had  been  speeding  about 
Spain  to  make  contracts  on  the  grape,  olive,  orange, 
and  apricot  crops.  Then  came  a  wine  taster,  one 
cork  grower,  and  three  cattle  breeders;  and  then  a 
troupe  of  Gitanos,  Gypsy  musicians  and  dancers  of 


38  THE  WOLF-CUB 

the  metropolitan  cafes.  And  these  having  been 
plucked  in  their  proper  sequence,  there  was  led  for- 
ward a  wisp  of  black-clad  nuns. 

Jacinto  Quesada  stepped  forward  and  took  off  his 
hat  to  the  nuns.  He  motioned  that  they  should 
be  brought  back  to  their  old  places  without  suffer- 
ing the  sacrilege  of  search,  and  he  said,  "Your 
pardon,  Ladies  of  God !  " 

Then  was  led  forward  a  foreign  looking  man, 
a  globe-trotter  who  had  been  traveling  alone.  He 
was  big,  broad-shouldered,  fair-haired  and  as 
smooth-shaven  as  any  bullfighter.  He  was  square 
of  face,  his  jaw  was  a  round  resolute  knob,  and 
his  eyes  were  blue  and  hinted  of  being  quick  to 
laugh.  Struck  by  the  foreign  look  of  the  man, 
Jacinto  Quesada  stepped  forward  once  again  and, 
with  an  air  of  ingenuous  curiosity,  asked,  "You  are 
a  Frenchman,  are  you  not  ?  " 

It  is  a  fact  that  most  Spaniards  mistake  all  for- 
eigners for  either  Frenchmen  or  Englishmen.  And 
they  never  can  distinguish  between  persons  of  the 
two  races. 

Answered  the  outlander,  "I  am  neither,  mucha- 
cho.  I  am  what  you  Spaniards  call  a  Yanqui,  a 
Norte  Americano." 

"Cascaras!  You  are  one  of  those  who  gave 
Spain  such  a  great  beating  a  few  years  ago  and 
robbed  us  of  Cuba  and  the  Philippines.  Thor- 
ough and  impudent  salteadores  de  camino,  you 
Yanquis  seem  to  me!  But  sometimes  it  does  a 
person  or  a  country  good  to  be  beaten  and  robbed. 
Spain  is  the  better  for  having  had  her  buttocks 
soundly  spanked;  and  the  Philippines  and  Cuba — 


THE  WOLF-CUB  39 

zut!  they  were  ulcers  on  her  flesh,  and  Spain  is 
sincerely  thankful  she  submitted  to  the  surgeon's 
knife,  now  that  the  thing  is  done!  " 

At  the  philosophical  and  rather  elevated  tone  of 
the  boy,  the  American  raised  his  eyebrows  in  sur- 
prise. Yet  he  had  traveled  in  Spain  some  months 
already,  and  he  should  have  been  used  to  Spanish 
logic  and  Spanish  eloquence. 

The  race  of  the  Cristinos  Viejos  is  an  old,  old 
race,  full  of  salt  and  masculinity  and  knowledge 
that  is  not  to  be  acquired  in  schools.  In  a  country 
where  any  peasant  will  argue  or  exchange  racy 
jokes  with  Alfonso  and  even  slap  him  on  the  back 
in  the  ensuing  hurly-burly  of  merriment,  where  a 
hidalgo  will  eat  with  his  coachman,  and  a  beggar 
light  his  cigarette  from  that  of  a  bishop,  how  other- 
wise than  the  way  Jacinto  Quesada  talked,  would  a 
man  of  the  people  talk? 

So  this  was  the  notorious  Jacinto  Quesada,  he 
whom  all  Spain  had  commenced  talking  about! 
Smiling  a  smile  of  appreciation,  the  American 
said: 

"I  think  you  are  very  well  right  about  the  recent 
war.  You  Spaniards  are  certainly  long  on  com- 
mon sense.  But  you  are  young  to  be  a  philosopher, 
Don  Jacinto." 

At  least,  that  was  what  he  tried  to  say.  But  he 
was  speaking  in  Spanish  and  he  was  not  altogether 
at  home  in  the  idioms  of  the  language.  However, 
Jacinto  Quesada  got  his  meaning. 

He  felt  pleased,  did  Jacinto  Quesada,  to  be  called 
a  philosopher.  With  a  smile  he  remembered  the 
ferocious  way  of  thinking  which  had  caused  him, 


40  THE  WOLF-CUB 

when  a  child,  to  seek  to  be  the  dorado  of  the  poor 
dead  Pernales — that  savage  philosophy  which  had 
finally  moved  him  to  become  a  bandolero.  He  was 
not  nearly  so  impetuous  and  fiery  and  bigoted  a 
youngster  as  then ;  he  was  more  serene,  more  Apol- 
lonian, more  pensively  thoughtful. 

But  the  American  was  speaking.  Thinking  to  be 
polite  and,  at  the  same  time,  rid  his  system  of  a 
sally  typically  American  in  humor,  he  said,  "It  is 
pleasant  to  meet  a  Spaniard  like  you !  " 

Quesada  caught  the  inference.  He  smiled,  show- 
ing his  clean  white  teeth,  and  returned,  "It  is  pleas- 
ant to  rob  you,  senor !  " 

And  he  added,  struck  with  surprise  that  a  man 
could  joke  while  in  such  an  awkward  and  even 
perilous  position,  and  startled  by  his  surprise  into 
admiration  and  wonder: 

"To  know  you,  caballero,  is  to  know  why  your 
countrymen  won  the  recent  war.  You  are  a  man 
of  the  great  bravery;  you  are  as  brave  as  the  very 
God  Himself!" 

Your  American  is  forever  afraid  lest  he  be  made 
the  butt  of  irony  and  ridicule,  the  target  of  satire 
and  sarcasm.  His  very  self -consciousness  indicates 
how  vulnerable  he  is  to  others'  opinions  of  him ;  and 
his  extreme  reserve  is  only  a  cloak  worn  eternally 
to  mask  the  weakness.  This  particular  American 
changed  countenance  as  he  had  never  changed 
countenance  when  menaced  by  the  bandoleros'  car- 
bines; he  went  white  and  cold,  his  eyes  flashed 
angrily.  And  sharply,  he  exploded: 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  " 

"Because  you  do  not  recoil  from  the  rough  touch 


THE  WOLF-CUB  41 

of  my  dorados;  because  your  eye  fearlessly  meets 
my  eye;  because  you  talk  without  falter  and  with- 
out affected  ease;  because  you  act  like  a  man  who 
is  a  man !  "  explained  Jacinto  Quesada  with  sin- 
cerity. And  to  clinch  the  argument,  he  added, 
Spaniard-like,  "I  am  utterly  brave  myself.  Do 
you  think  I  cannot  recognize  men  of  my  own 
kind?" 

The  American  fidgeted,  blushed  slightly,  and 
smiled  a  very  rueful  smile. 

"But  why,  if  I  am  so  very  brave,"  he  countered, 
"did  I  not  rebel  and  kill  some  of  you  when  your 
men  herded  me  out  on  the  prairie  with  the  rest,  and 
then  yanked  me  forward  to  pick  my  pockets? 
There  is  a  Colt's  automatic  in  my  hip  pocket,  but 
you'll  notice  I  have  not  used  it !  " 

"A  brave  man  is  not  necessarily  a  brave  fool  like 
the  hidalgo  don,  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,"  returned 
Quesada  shortly.  "You  Americans  are  a  senti- 
mental race." 

Then,  turning  to  one  of  the  searchers,  he  ordered, 
"Relieve  the  Yanqui  caballero  of  the  pistol  that  is 
such  a  temptation  to  him,  Rafael  Perez!  " 

Presently,  eager  to  have  their  turns  and  be  done 
with  the  necessary  formalities,  pressed  forward  a 
cuadrilla  of  bullfighters.  A  few  of  them  wore  the 
ordinary  street  dress  of  men  of  the  profession. 
They  would  be  known  anywhere  in  Spain  for 
bullfighters  by  their  broad,  stiff-brimmed,  low- 
crowned  black  hats  and  their  black,  tightly  fitting 
clothes. 

The  most  of  them  were  still  in  bull-ring  costume, 
however.  In  the  busy  months  of  the  Taurine  Sea- 


42  THE  WOLF-CUB 

son,  when  bullfights  are  almost  daily  events  and 
contracts  must  be  fulfilled,  the  Brethren  of  the 
Coleta  are  kept  continually  on  the  jump — rushing 
precipitantly  from  town  to  town,  from  bull  ring  to 
railroad  train  and  straightway  again  to  bull  ring — 
and  they  have  little  or  no  time  to  change  from  bull 
ring  costume  into  street  clothes  and  scarcely  more 
time  to  spend  in  eating,  sleeping,  or  doing  any- 
thing else  than  murdering  bulls.  Therefore,  it  is 
a  habit  with  bullfighters  to  railroad  everywhere 
about  the  peninsula  in  full  ring  regalia;  and  one 
often  sees  these  athletes  speeding,  gorgeously  clad, 
over  the  desert  vegas  or  alighting  at  the  depots  of 
bullfight-crazy  towns. 

First  to  come  forward  was  the  espada,  the  dexter- 
ous with  the  sword,  the  murderer  of  bulls,  the  man 
of  death. 

Jacinto  Quesada  took  one  look  at  him,  then  with 
gusto  cried,  "Por  los  Clavos  de  Cristo!  if  here  is  not 
the  great  Morales !  " 

"Seguramente,  yes,  I  am  the  great  Morales!" 
returned  the  matador,  bowing  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  swift  and  hearty  recognition.  He  wore  pink 
silk  stockings,  gold-braided  green  silk  breeches, 
waistcoat,  and  jacket,  a  white  ruffled  shirt,  a  crim- 
son tie,  and  a  black  cap.  He  wore  the  black  rosette 
and  ribbons  of  the  matador  in  his  coleta,  his  queue 
— that  long,  thick,  and  sacred  lock  of  hair  all  bull- 
fighters wear  as  the  time-honored  insignia  of  their 
ancient  profession. 

He  was  not  yet  thirty.  He  was  a  little  below  the 
middle  height.  He  had  a  long  body  and  short  mus- 
cular legs.  He  was  all  iron  and  strength.  And  his 


THE  WOLF-CUB  43 

brown  Andalusian  face  was  the  typical  young  bull 
fighter's  face,  boyish,  almost  effeminate  with  its 
mild  contours;  a  face  made  expressive  and  pleas- 
ing by  eyes  soft,  dark,  thick-lashed  and  very  brave; 
a  face  that  was  the  easily  read  table-of -contents 
of  an  honest,  simple-souled,  intrepid  man. 

Jacinto  Quesada's  eyes  smiled,  and  his  whole  face 
beamed,  as  he  looked  at  him,  for  he  recognized 
in  this  man  whom  he  had  long  admired  because 
of  his  splendid  courage  in  the  bull  ring  a  kindred 
spirit. 

"And  how  are  the  wife  and  the  children,  Man- 
uel? "  he  asked. 

"Most  excellent  in  health,  thank  you,  Jacinto! 
And  you?  And  your  family?" 

"Superb!  But  ah,  Morales,  what  would  I  not 
give  to  be  watching  you  killing  your  bulls  in  the 
Seville  bull  ring  at  this  moment,  instead  of  doing 
what  I  am — setting  my  dogs  of  ladrones  upon  you 
to  rob  you  of  your  hard-earned  money!  Say  but 
the  word,  and  you  will  be  exempted  from  this  in- 
dignity!" 

"A  thousand  thanks;  but  no,  I  would  rather  not! 
It  is  too  much  honor !  " 

"Too  much  honor  for  you,  one  of  the  three  brav- 
est men  in  Spain?  You,  whom  I  have  ridden  fifty 
miles  many  times  to  see  give  the  suerte  de  matar, 
the  stroke  of  death!  Why,  to  sit  in  the  sun  and 
watch  you  perform,  I  have  ventured  into  Seville  in 
disguise  when  the  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  were  as 
thick  about  the  bull  ring  as  flea-bitten  curs  about  a 
camp  of  Gitanos;  and  I  have  counted  the  risk  noth- 
ing!" 


44  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"But  if  I  am  one  of  the  three  bravest  men  in 
Spain,  as  you  say,  who  are  the  others?  Who  is 
the  second?  Who  is  the  third?  " 

"The  second !     Can  you  not  guess  ?  " 

"Ah,  chispas!  yes.  Yourself,  Jacinto  Quesada, 
of  course ! " 

"And  the  third?" 

The  brow  of  the  matador  darkened  with  profes- 
sional jealousy.  Tentatively  he  asked,  "You  do 
not  mean  the  espada,  Lagartijo,  do  you?" 

"No;  I  do  not  like  Lagartijo's  ceremoniousness 
and  caution;  I  like  only  diestros  of  the  good  old 
charge-and-take-a-chance  Sevillian  school.  I  mean 
that  Yanqui  traveler  over  there.  He  is  like  us  two ; 
he  is  an  iron-boweled  man !  " 

The  bullfighter  turned  around  and  took  a  good 
look  at  the  lone  American.  Then  he  slapped  his 
breeches  and  jacket  and  invited  the  bearded  saltea- 
dores  to  continue  with  the  search. 

After  the  cuadrilla  of  bullfighters  came  a  fat  gray 
parish  priest;  then  several  tourists  from  Central 
and  South  America ;  then  a  pretty  flight  of  rosy  and 
demure  young  convent  girls,  bound  northward  un- 
der the  vigilant  watch  of  two  prim  sallow  duennas; 
and  then  a  tall  blond  man  with  a  straw-colored 
mustache  darkened  and  stiff  with  wax. 

It  was  palpable  this  man  was  no  Spaniard. 
He  was  dressed  with  neatness,  even  elegance. 
Strangely,  his  face  looked  much  older  than  his  lithe 
athletic  body.  It  was  a  sharp,  clever  face,  but  a 
peculiar  ashy  pallor  overspread  it  and,  about  the 
mouth,  there  were  hard  grim  lines.  The  nose  was 
long,  high-bridged,  predatory.  The  eyes  were  slate- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  45 

colored,  small  and  bright  and  furtive.  They  had  a 
peculiar  trick  of  drooping  at  the  outer  corners,  a 
trick  that  gave  him  a  calculating  and  rather  sinister 
look. 

He  had  been  traveling  with  his  young  wife,  a  very 
lovely  slip  of  a  girl.  Her  turn  was  to  come  next. 
She  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  muster  of  people,  look- 
ing after  her  foreign-looking  husband  with  blue 
eyes  oddly  eager  rather  than  anxious.  She  was  a 
golden-haired  girl  of  the  rare  Castilian  blond  type. 
She  seemed  made  all  of  gold,  ivory,  and  rose  petals. 
Among  all  those  frightened  people,  she  alone  was 
without  fear.  As  she  stood  there,  looking  calmly 
about  her,  she  seemed  altogether  the  innocent 
and  trustful  child;  to  all  appearances  she  should 
have  been  still  in  some  Spanish  convent,  seques- 
tered and  secure — not  abroad  in  the  world  where 
there  are  bandoleros  and  even  men  of  worse 
sorts. 

Her  husband,  the  foreign-looking  man,  was  about 
to  be  put  to  the  search  when,  aroused  by  something 
more  than  curiosity,  Jacinto  Quesada  stepped  for- 
ward and  asked  brusquely,  "You  are  a  French- 
man?" 

"I  am  a  Frenchman,  wionsenor!3 

"And  why,  Frenchman,  do  you  make  signs  with 
your  hands  to  me?  " 

With  good  reason  Jacinto  Quesada  asked  that 
question.  Ever  since  he  had  been  singled  out  for 
the  search,  the  Frenchman,  looking  everywhere  but 
at  his  hands,  had  been  persistently  making  covert 
signals  with  those  hands.  First  he  drew  two  fingers 
down  across  his  left  cheek;  then  he  made  certain 


46  THE  WOLF-CUB 

finger  movements  very  like  the  word-spelling  finger 
movements  of  the  deaf  and  dumb;  and  finally  he 
stroked  his  throat  and  Adam's  apple  with  a  certain 
lingering  wistful  care! 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  pale  Frenchman  looked  full  at  Jacinto 
Quesada,  and  suddenly  his  small  slate-colored  eyes 
blazed  like  sunlight  on  ice. 

"Do  you  not  comprehend  of  the  signs  the  mean- 
ing?" he  asked  sharply  in  tolerable  Spanish. 

"No." 

"Nor  that  which  I  desire  you  to  understand  when 
I  do  this  thing?" 

Impetuously  he  stepped  forward  and  grasped, 
with  his  right  hand,  the  right  hand  of  Jacinto 
Quesada.  What  followed  seemed  only  a  most 
ardent  handshake.  Then  he  dropped  Quesada's 
hand  and  stepped  back,  assuming  his  old  passive 
pose.  And  only  Quesada  knew  that  there  had 
passed  between  them  another  signal — he  alone  knew 
that  the  Frenchman,  on  gripping  his  hand,  had 
tapped  the  wrist  of  that  hand  with  his  index  finger 
twice. 

Rumpling  his  brow,  the  youthful  bandolero  con- 
sulted with  himself  for  a  space.  Then,  his  face 
clearing,  decisively  he  said: 

"No,  Frenchman,  your  signals  to  me  have  no 
meaning.  It  is,  perhaps,  that  I  am  not  of  suffi- 
cient knowledge;  I  am  only  a  poor  Moor  of 
Andalusia,  you  know.  But  what  is  the  message 
you  wish  to  convey  by  your  cabalistic  signs?  I 
am  curious,  senor;  tell  me  in  honest  Spanish  and 
interestedly  I  shall  listen." 


48  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  tall  blond  Frenchman  laughed  ruefully  un- 
der his  waxed  mustache. 

"As  you  do  not  comprehend  my  signs,"  he  said, 
"to  explain  to  you  the  meaning  would  do  me  little 
good,  I  fear." 

Returned  Quesada,  somewhat  disappointed,  "You 
fear  rightly,  Frenchman !  " 

He  made  a  slight  gesture  of  the  hand.  Two  of 
his  dorados  seized  the  Frenchman  and  proceeded 
to  subject  him  to  a  rough  overhauling.  The 
Frenchman  grimaced  with  impotent  rage  and,  nar- 
rowing his  naturally  small  calculating  eyes,  watched 
the  searchers'  every  move  with  covert  anxiety. 

Brusque,  precipitant,  hasty  was  that  search. 
Very  easily  might  it  have  been  more  studied  and 
thorough.  But  a  gold  watch,  a  few  Spanish  gold 
and  silver  peseta  pieces,  two  rings  set  with  diamonds 
and  an  emerald  scarf  pin  were  taken  from  him  before 
he  was  liberated  by  the  searchers.  The  rings  and 
the  scarf  pin  were  not  plucked  from  his  hands  and 
necktie;  they  were  found  deep  in  his  pockets  where 
he  had  hidden  them,  thinking  perhaps,  to  smuggle 
them  past  the  bandoleros. 

At  that,  the  emerald  scarf  pin  was  but  a  very 
ordinary  jimcrack  and  the  diamonds  of  the  two 
rings,  though  huge  and  pretentious,  had  the  dis- 
honest and  glassy  look  of  paste  imitations. 
Though  but  simple  Moors,  even  as  they  called  them- 
selves, the  bandoleros  were  not  so  ingenuous  as  to 
be  deceived  by  them;  and  they  wondered  greatly 
why  he  had  concealed  them  writh  such  pains.  Re- 
marked sarcastically  one  of  the  searchers,  a  certain 
Ignacio  Garcia,  addressing  Quesada: 


THE  WOLF-CUB  49 

"The  elegant  French  rooster  has  but  a  thinly 
lined  crop,  maestro!" 

He  grasped  the  Frenchman's  elbow  and  swung 
him  about-face.  Then  he  gave  him  a  shove  toward 
the  group  already  plucked  and  gutted,  shouting 
harshly,  "Away  with  you,  you  false  jewel! 
Pronto!" 

The  Frenchman  hastened  to  merge  himself  into 
the  background.  Once  his  face  was  turned  away 
from  the  bandoleros,  his  pebbly  eyes  sparkled 
with  profound  relief;  they  sparkled  with  incon- 
cealable  joy;  and  he  smiled  a  superior  triumphant 
smile. 

"Who  comes  next?"  asked  Jacinto  Quesada, 
without  much  interest. 

"The  beautiful  young  wife  of  the  Frenchman, 
maestro.  She,  with  the  mouth  that  is  a  nest  for 
kisses !  "  And  Rafael  Perez  pointed  her  out. 

"And  it  please  you,  you  may  come  forward, 
Senora  Dona !  "  in  a  carefully  softened  voice  called 
Pio  Estrada,  another  of  the  searchers.  Strange, 
but  her  youth  and  beauty  and  high  hidalgo  look  had 
moved  the  man  to  a  ruffian's  attempt  at  courtesy  and 
gentleness. 

As  she  made  to  step  forward,  Jacinto  Quesada 
turned  his  eyes  upon  the  beautiful  golden-haired 
girl  and,  for  the  first  time,  gave  her  a  special  and 
particular  scrutiny. 

"Hola!"  he  gasped.     "What  is  this?" 

He  stepped  forward  a  step,  his  eyelids  narrowed, 
his  eyes  gleaming ;  and  he  shot  toward  her  a  second 
look,  piercing,  probing.  It  was  as  though  he  were 
shocked  and  aroused,  puzzled  and  confounded. 


50  THE  WOLF-CUB 

While  he  looked  eagerly  and  long  at  her,  he  mut- 
tered : 

"What  a  resemblance!  But  no — it  is  not  a  re- 
semblance. She  is  she  herself !  " 

He  moved  slowly  towards  her  as  though  drawn 
thence  by  an  irresistible  influence.  Suddenly  he 
called  out  a  name  1 

"Felicidad!" 

On  the  barren,  windless  plain  to  the  right  of 
the  stalled  carriages,  they  were  all  gathered,  the 
bandoleros  with  their  carbines,  the  travelers  so  like 
a  herd  of  cattle  in  a  rodeo.  Those  passengers,  al- 
ready searched  and  robbed,  were  in  a  separate 
group;  they  were  sequestered  from  those  not  yet 
searched  and  made  to  deliver.  No  sound  came 
across  the  everlasting  flats  but  the  low  incessant 
chitter  of  the  desert-loving  wheatears,  little  fuzzy 
fat  birds  that  live  among  the  mimosa  and  the 
thorny  acacia  and  the  stunted  ilex  of  that  ugly  and 
desolate  Manchega  veldt.  Out  from  the  main  drove 
of  passengers  moved  bravely  the  golden-haired  girl. 
And  then,  a  name  was  called,  and  the  windless  air 
became  suddenly  electric  with  drama. 

The  Frenchman's  young  wife  .moved  forward, 
seemingly  unaware  of  Jacinto  Quesada's  call,  of 
his  now  devouring  gaze.  Well,  suddenly  and  all  on 
the  moment,  she  turned  about-face  and  started 
swiftly  for  the  stalled  train! 

It  was  altogether  unexpected.  She  was  not  the 
first  of  her  sex  to  be  singled  out  for  the  search; 
she  had  seen  nuns  and  convent  maids  and  even 
Gitanas  treated  by  the  bandoleros  with  a  respect 
and  courtesy  that  amounted  almost  to  reverence; 


THE  WOLF-CUB  51 

and  yet,  at  the  last  instant,  alarm  and  trepidation 
had  overcome  her,  it  seemed.  She  was  hysterical, 
perhaps;  almost  insane  with  terror. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  her  unexpected  and  erratic 
performance  caused  an  echoing  panic  to  sweep  over 
the  other  passengers.  Even  the  bandoleros  felt  the 
contagion.  Cursing  excitedly,  two  of  them  started 
to  pursue  the  golden-haired  girl,  while  the  third, 
Rafael  Perez,  standing  near  Quesada,  raised  his 
carbine  and  screamed  hoarsely : 

"Come  back  here,  you  outrageous  minx ! " 

The  crowd,  momentarily  free  from  the  dread  of 
the  bandoleros,  had  commenced  an  insensate  shout- 
ing and  milling.  Now,  had  Perez  fired  off  the  car- 
bine, the  whole  hold-up  might  have  ended  then  and 
there  for  the  bandoleros  in  an  inglorious  head- 
long rout.  The  passengers,  already  out  of  thrall 
to  the  salteadores,  would  have  risen  in  tumultuous, 
uncontrollable  fury  at  this  firing  on  a  defenseless 
woman. 

But  Jacinto  Quesada  rose  to  the  crisis  and  saved 
the  situation.  Excited  though  he  was,  he  sprung 
toward  Perez,  tore  the  carbine  from  his  hands  and, 
pointing  it  at  the  crowd,  shouted  imperiously  to 
his  men : 

"Back,  you  fools,  to  your  stations!  Guard  these 
people.  Shoot  any  that  break  away!  And  don't 
mind  the  girl!  I'll  bring  her  back — I,  and  no  one 
else!" 

Presto!  and  the  bandoleros  were  back  in  their 
old  positions,  their  carbines  sweeping  the  crowd. 
The  imminent  danger  of  stampede  was  dissipated. 
The  discipline  of  dread  again  prevailed. 


5*  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Handing  the  carbine  back  to  Perez,  Jacinto 
Quesada  started  after  the  girl.  She  had  fled  with- 
out aim,  without  purpose,  he  thought,  like  a  fright- 
ened doe  that  cares  not  where  she  flees  so  long 
as  she  flees  from  the  huntsmen.  Her  panicky 
flight  would  do  little  good,  however;  a  sort  of 
trap  was  the  stalled  train,  not  a  refuge  and  sanc- 
tuary. 

The  girl  was  just  about  to  open  the  door  of  one 
of  the  third-class  coaches  and  fling  herself  therein 
when,  all  at  once,  she  cast  back  a  look,  first  at 
her  tall  blond  mustached  husband,  then  at  Quesada. 
Strangely,  her  glances  seemed  to  have  become  pre- 
posterously 'mixed.  It  was  a  look  of  dread  and 
loathing  she  threw  back  toward  her  husband;  and 
a  look  of  entreaty  and  beseeching  she  sent  toward 
the  pursuing  bandolero ! 

With  his  long  mountaineer's  legs,  Jacinto  Quesada 
sprinted  to  the  train.  Hardly  had  the  door  of  the 
third-class  carriage  closed  behind  the  golden-haired 
girl  than  he  was  at  that  door.  Open  he  flung  it 
and  in  he  burst. 

"Felicidad!  Felicidad,  querida  mia,  my  darling! 
It  is  I,  Jacinto — Jacinto  Quesada!  You  have 
naught  to  fear  from  me.  And  if  you  had  told  me 
that  he,  the  Frenchman,  was  your  husband,  I  would 
not  have  robbed  him.  Porvida!  everything  taken 
already  shall  be  given  him  back.  And  as  for  you, 
dear  Felicidad — " 

She  had  backed  herself  against  the  door  opposite. 
Now  she  came  forward  swiftly,  her  face  paling 
and  flushing,  her  lip  a-quiver.  It  was  not  as 
though  she  were  glad  with  sudden  recognition:  it 


THE  WOLF-CUB  53 

was  as  though  she  were  terribly  agitated  by  some 
deadly  fear.  She  said,  in  a  dry  expressionless 
tone: 

"I  heard  your  name  mentioned  by  some  pas- 
senger as  we  were  bundled  from  the  train,  Jacinto, 
and  ah !  how  grateful  to  God  I  was  when  I  first  saw 
you,  almost  half  an  hour  ago,  standing  among  those 
ruffianly  ladrones!  I  remembered  the  time  you 
saved  me  from  my  father's  quirta — and  I  needed 
you  so  much  more,  now! 

"All  this  long,  long  afternoon  I  prayed  that 
something  would  happen — anything,  anything! 
God  of  my  soul!  how  I  prayed!  But  even  after  I 
discovered  you  and  realized  that,  for  our  child- 
hood's sake,  you  would  protect  me,  it  took  all  my 
courage  and  strength  to  flee  from  the  crowd  and 
conceal  myself  here,  where  I  could  speak  to  you  and 
not  be  spied  upon  or  suspected  by  that  evil,  that 
terrible  man!  " 

Almost  in  a  whisper  were  her  words  spoken,  but 
they  crashed  upon  Jacinto  Quesada's  brain  like  ex- 
ploding, detonating  shells.  He  reeled  back,  over- 
whelmed, staggered,  knocked  all  to  pieces.  He 
gasped : 

"For  los  Clavos  de  Cristo !  what  is  all  this  ?  " 

"Ah,  Maria  purissima !  He  does  not  understand ! 
But  all,  I  shall  tell  him !  " — and  swiftly,  precipi- 
tantly,  the  girl  went  on : 

"This  Frenchman.  He  calls  himself  Jacques 
Ferou.  He  was  the  only  one  that  was  kind  to  me 
and  even  until  two  hours  ago,  I  thought  I  loved  him. 
We  were  to  be  married  in  Madrid  to-night — but 
now — " 


54  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"Then  he  is  not  already  your  husband !  Carajo ! 
I  thought— 

"No;  we  but  eloped  this  morning.  And  now, 
I  would  not  continue  on  with  him;  I  would  turn 
back!  I  am  afraid — afraid!" 

"But  tell  me  all  from  the  beginning.  Your  words 
turn  my  brain  to  a  stew !  " 


CHAPTER  VII 

JACINTO  QUESADA  had  known  Felicidad's  father, 
Don  Jaime  de  Torreblanca  y  Moncada;  he  had 
lived  in  the  great,  cold,  dingy  house  near  Granada; 
he  had  tasted  the  secluded,  lonely  life  of  Felicidad. 
Therefore,  she  had  but  to  say  a  few  sketchy  rapid 
sentences  and  he  comprehended  the  beginning  of 
everything. 

"Of  late  years,  my  father  has  become  gradually 
poorer,  Jacinto,"  she  said. 

Quesada  nodded  his  head  understandingly.  Don 
Jaime  had  never  refused  his  physician's  services  to 
the  poverty-stricken  and  wretched;  and  the  pov- 
erty-stricken and  wretched  were  always  becoming 
sick ;  and  the  poverty-stricken  and  wretched  seldom 
paid.  Small  wonder  that  Don  Jaime's  fortunes  had 
fallen  into  decay ! 

"My  father  had  no  money  put  by  to  keep  him  in 
his  old  age;  but  he  always  said  he  would  sell  those 
old  beloved  books  of  his  when  he  became  incapaci- 
tated, by  age,  for  a  physician's  arduous  toils,  or 
when  bitter  necessity  pressed  him  hard.  You  must 
know,  Jacinto,  that  father's  ancient,  yellow-leafed 
books  are  worth  much,  much  money." 

She  went  on  to  explain.  Learned  men,  famous 
men — some  of  them  scholarly  descendants  of  noble 
families,  others  erudite  plebeians  with  the  right  to 
affix  a  dozen  initials  after  their  names — were  al- 


56  THE  WOLF-CUB 

ways  coming  to  Don  Jaime's  house  from  the  Uni- 
versity of  Salamanca  and  the  Museo  Provincial  of 
Seville  to  examine  those  books  and  to  write  histori- 
cal treatises  and  critiques  from  them.  And  it  was 
not  unusual  to  find  one  of  these  bookworms,  these 
bibliophiles,  these  hombres  del  todo  aficionado  a 
los  libros,  making  eager  hints  to  purchase  such  of 
the  precious  dingy  tomes  as  they  considered  within 
their  means. 

Some  of  the  books  had  been  possessed  by  Don 
Jaime's  family  for  hundreds  of  years;  others  he  had 
come  by  through  his  godfather  who  was  a  famous 
Spanish  historian  and  very  rich;  and  still  others 
he  had  himself  discovered  when  doctoring  ruined 
hidalgo  families  and  the  monks  of  poverty-gutted 
monasteries;  and  he  had  taken  these  finds  in  place 
of  monetary  fees.  Naturally  enough,  therefore,  he 
hated  to  part  with  any  of  this  great  treasure  in 
books. 

Fearing  an  old  age  of  stony  poverty,  however, 
Don  Jaime  at  last  made  up  his  mind  to  put  the  books 
on  sale.  The  money  he  might  receive  from  market- 
ing the  books  he  planned  to  invest  in  Argentine 
bonds.  Three  months  gone,  he  wrote  to  two  great 
houses  that  deal  in  rare  and  valuable  books;  the 
one  in  London,  the  other  in  Paris. 

Posthaste,  two  months  since,  came  to  the  house 
outside  Granada,  the  buyer  for  the  London  firm. 
In  far-away  cold  London,  they  had  heard  of  Don 
Jaime's  collection,  for  there  was  not  another  col- 
lection of  its  like  outside  of  Spain.  For  two  weeks 
the  London  book-buyer  lived  in  the  casa  with  Don 
Jaime  and  Felicidad,  cataloguing  and  pricing  the 


THE  WOLF-CUB  57 

books.  Some  of  the  old  quaint  authors  he  rejected 
as  of  little  worth,  but  others  he  called  "glorious 
Golcondas"  and  offered  Don  Jaime  such  a  sum  for 
them  that  he  was  amazed,  astounded.  He  had  not 
expected  to  receive  so  much  money  for  the  whole 
aggregate  and  total  of  his  collection. 

"Three  weeks  ago,  after  paying  my  father  a 
fortune  in  bank  notes,"  continued  the  girl,  "the 
English  book-buyer,  Senor  Havelock  Moore-In- 
graham,  went  away,  and  with  him,  borne  by  a 
caravan  of  ten  mules,  went  the  cream  and  richness 
of  my  father's  library. 

"Then  came  to  our  house  this  Jacques  Ferou. 
He  said  he  had  been  sent  by  the  Paris  house  to 
whom  my  father  had  written.  My  father  told  him 
that  he  was  too  late  to  bid,  that  all  the  books  of 
value  had  been  sold. 

"At  that  Jacques  Ferou  became  very  downcast; 
he  said  that  his  firm  would  be  much  put  out  when 
they  learned  he  had  allowed  the  English  company 
to  bag  the  hares  while  he  played  the  laggard.  And 
he  begged  very  earnestly  for  permission  to  look 
through  the  books,  which  had  not  been  purchased, 
in  the  hope  that  the  English  agent  had  overlooked 
a  few  volumes  of  value,  volumes  that  he  might 
buy  in  order  to  save  his  face." 

Don  Jaime  gave  him  permission  so  to  do.  For 
almost  a  month  he  lived  in  the  great  dusky  lonely 
house.  When  he  was  not  in  the  library  poring  over 
the  yellowed  tomes,  he  wandered  through  the  house, 
seeking  sight  of  Felicidad.  When  she  had  her  daily 
"hour  of  balcony  ",  he  would  leave  the  casa  and  stand 
watching  her  from  across  the  road,  "playing  the 


58  THE  WOLF-CUB 

bear "    in    a    very    serious    and    devoted   manner. 

"I  had  never  had  a  novio  before,"  explained 
Felicidad,  "and  his  eyes  were  so  kind  and  sympa- 
thetic! It  was  very  lonely  in  the  great  house  with 
just  my  father  and  the  old  whining  Pedro  and 
the  old  childish  Teresa.  And  he  treated  me  with 
such  consideration  and  reverence! 

"We  used  to  meet  often  in  the  long  dusky  cor- 
ridors, he  kissing  my  hands  and  telling  me  how 
beautiful  I  was,  and  I  liking  it,  yet  feeling  fear  of 
him  and  all  a-tremble,  besides,  lest  my  father  dis- 
cover us.  And  at  dinner  time  and  all  through  the 
evenings,  there  he  would  be  again,  talking  with  my 
father  about  'rogue  novels'  and  the  chroniclers  of 
the  conquistadores,  and  ever  looking  at  me  with 
the  burning  eyes  of  love. 

"Two  days  ago,  my  father  spoke  very  harshly  to 
me,  threatening  me  with  a  beating — he  beats  me 
even  yet,  you  know.  Old  Pedro  had  told  him  that 
I  had  a  novio — that  was  why  he  was  angered  at  me. 
But  he  did  not  as  yet  suspect  that  my  lover  was 
Jacques  Ferou. 

"Jacques  was  to  leave  our  house  for  Paris  in  an- 
other week.  I  could  not  resign  myself  to  the  old 
loneliness  in  that  empty  gloomy  house ;  and  I  would 
not  suffer  even  one  more  time  the  indignity  of  a 
beating  at  my  father's  hands.  So  two  days  ago 
I  consented  to  run  off  with  Jacques  Ferou  and  be- 
come his  wife. 

"At  four  o'clock  this  morning,  when  it  was  still 
dark,  I  left  my  bed,  dressed,  put  a  few  things  to- 
gether, and  went  out  on  my  balcony.  Jacques  was 
waiting  for  me.  He  threw  up  a  rope  and  I  tied 


THE  WOLF-CUB  59 

it  to  the  iron  railing  and  let  myself  down  into  his 
arms. 

"Down  the  road  a  high-powered  automobile 
awaited  us.  In  it  we  raced  precipitantly  away,  for 
as  you  very  well  know,  we  had  the  outraged  pride 
of  my  terrible  father  to  fear.  Before  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  we  had  fled  almost  as  far  as  Jaen. 
Then  something  went  wrong  with  the  automobile 
and  it  would  go  no  farther ;  whereupon,  Jacques  sent 
a  labrador  into  Jaen,  who  soon  came  back  escorting 
a  diligence  pulled  by  four  horses.  In  the  diligence 
we  set  off  for  Castro  which  is  on  the  railroad  to 
Madrid.  It  was  two  hours  before  noon  when  we 
reached  Castro,  and  the  train  came  at  noon." 

They  were  on  the  Seville-to-Madrid  that  after- 
noon, when  suddenly  Felicidad  thought : 

"Has  Jacques  forgotten  that  he  came  to  my  fa- 
ther's house  to  purchase  books — has  he  forgotten  his 
matter-of-fact  business  in  his  overmastering  love 
for  me?  He  has  neither  paid  my  father  for  those 
books  he  selected,  nor  taken  those  books  he  selected 
away  with  him. 

"I  questioned  Jacques.  He  laughed.  He  told 
me  not  to  worry  about  his  business  affairs.  But 
I  continued  to  worry;  I  felt  already  a  wife's  interest 
and  pride  in  my  future  husband's  career ;  and  I  was 
much  afraid  that  his  employers  in  Paris  would  be 
angered  by  his  careless  handling  of  the  whole  trans- 
action. 

"When  Jacques  saw  that  I  was  still  put  out  about 
him,  he  laughed  again,  this  time  heartily  and  long. 
Then  suddenly  he  stopped  laughing  and,  looking 
hard  into  my  eyes,  said  in  a  cold,  challenging  voice : 


60  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"  'Suppose  I  should  tell  you,  ma  cherie,  that  I  am 
not  in  the  employ  of  a  Paris  book  house;  that  my 
business  is  not  at  all  that  of  a  purchaser  of  rare 
books;  and  that  I  care  for  rare  books  not  a  snap  of 
the  fingers!"' 

Felicidad  was  thunderstruck  and  a  little  stunned. 
He  saw  the  shocked  expression  on  her  face  and 
thereat  commenced,  with  a  cruel  malicious  delight, 
to  tell  her  other  things. 

He  had  been  to  the  United  States,  Mexico,  Brazil, 
and  Chile;  he  had  been  to  Egypt,  Italy,  England, 
and  Sweden.  He  had  been  to  Spain  more  than  a 
dozen  times  before.  He  had  had  many  adventures. 
But,  strangely,  these  adventures  were  all  adven- 
tures in  crime.  He  had  robbed  cathedrals  in  France 
and  Spain  of  their  valuable  paintings  and  jewels 
and  even  of  their  statuary.  He  had  robbed  muse- 
ums and  private  collections  of  the  New  World. 

He  seemed  to  swell  with  pride,  to  grow  with 
importance  as  he  bared  his  real  self  thus  to  her. 
With  snobbish  care,  he  explained  to  her  how  far 
superior  to  ordinary  criminals  he  was;  he  defined 
himself  as  one  of  a  limited  and  ultra-clever  aristoc- 
racy of  thieves.  It  was  as  though  he  were  showing 
a  noble  and  praiseworthy  side  of  himself  hitherto 
unrevealed ;  it  was  as  though  he  had  wooed  a  peas- 
ant girl,  while  disguised  in  a  most  humble  attire, 
and  now  lifted  his  vagabond's  ragged  cap  to  re- 
veal a  prince's  crown.  He  said  he  was  a  member 
of  the  "White  Wolves  ",  an  organization  of  French 
criminals  who  stole  mostly  from  churches.  He 
said  he  was  a  member  of  many  other  exclusive 
criminal  fraternities. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  61 

When  from  the  lips  of  Felicidad,  Jacinto  Quesada 
heard  this  last,  he  ejaculated: 

"Carajo!  So  that  was  why,  before  we  searched 
him,  he  made  such  queer  signs  to  me — he  was  using 
thieves'  signs,  the  signals  of  those  criminal  brother- 
hoods to  which  he  belongs.  He  thought  I,  as  an- 
other thief,  might  have  some  knowledge  of  that 
language  of  signs  and  that,  out  of  a  thief's  respect 
for  a  thief,  I  might  exempt  him  from  the  ordeal  of 
the  search !  " 

"Of  what  do  you  speak  now — what  signs?" 
asked  Felicidad,  bewildered. 

Jacinto  Quesada  explained.  Then  he  said, 
"Proceed  with  your  story,  dear  Felicidad." 

Continuing,  therefore,  Felicidad  told  how  Jacques 
Ferou,  intent  on  showing  how  consummately  clever 
he  was  at  all  criminal  business,  and  not  averse  to 
filling  his  young  wife  with  awe  and  fear  of  him, 
led  up  at  last  to  the  business  that  had  brought  him 
to  Spain  and  to  the  house  of  Don  Jaime  de  Tor- 
reblanca  y  Moncada. 

Once  upon  a  time,  he  had  indeed  worked  for  the 
Paris  book  house  whose  card  he  had  used  to  intro- 
duce himself  to  the  haughty  hidalgo.  He  had  been 
hired  by  a  very  rich  and  very  crazy  bibliophile  to 
get  feloniously,  as  it  was  beyond  even  the  biblio- 
maniac's purse,  a  certain  precious  book  in  the 
possession  of  the  Paris  firm ;  and  the  better  to  steal 
the  ancient  volume,  he  had  hired  himself  as  a  clerk 
to  them  for  three  months. 

Through  another  clerk  still  in  their  employ — a 
hunchbacked  fellow  whom  he  had  picked  out,  with 
a  criminal's  sure  instinct,  as  a  weakling  inclined 


62  THE  WOLF-CUB 

to  dishonesty  and  crime  of  a  sort — he  had  secured 
Don  Jaime's  letter  offering  the  books  for  sale,  be- 
fore any  one  but  his  ally  and  friend,  the  hunch- 
back, had  a  chance  to  see  it. 

Now,  he  knew  a  little  about  rare  books;  so  he 
practiced  talking  about  books  like  a  bibliophile  and 
buyer;  and  very  shortly,  he  started  for  Spain.  But 
he  traveled  slowly  for  a  certain  reason. 

\Yhen  he  told  her  this  last,  Felicidad  asked 
him: 

"But  for  what  reason  did  you  travel  slowly?" 

Jacques  Ferou  looked  at  Felicidad  in  a  pity  that, 
perhaps,  amounted  to  a  contempt. 

"Why,  you  silly  baby!"  laughed  he.  "After  all 
I  have  said,  don't  you  know  why  it  was  I  traveled 
all  the  way  from  Paris  to  your  father's  house  in 
Andalusia?  " 

"No!" 

At  that,  laughing  the  louder,  he  opened  the  top 
of  his  vest  and  put  his  hand  down  beneath  his  shirt 
and  undershirt.  Presently,  from  under  his  armpit, 
he  drew  out  a  small,  mahogany-colored  leather  purse 
and  let  Felicidad  look  into  it.  Within  was  a  roll  of 
bills,  tightly  wound  and  compressed  so  that  they 
took  up  but  little  space.  Felicidad  gasped  with 
fright  and  horror  when  she  saw  the  color  of  the 
top  bank  note.  It  was  a  bank  note  on  the 
Bank  of  Spain  for  five  thousand  pesetas!  Her 
father,  the  terrible  Don  Jaime,  had  been  paid  by 
the  English  book-buyer  in  five-thousand  peseta 
bills! 

But  Jacques  Ferou  was  saying: 

"You  know,  your  father  mentioned  offering  the 


THE  WOLF-CUB  63 

books  to  the  English  firm  when  he  wrote  that  letter 
to  Paris.  Therefore,  I  delayed  my  journey  to 
Spain  so  that  I  should  not  reach  your  father's  house 
until  the  English  book-buyer  had  paid  over  the 
money  for  the  purchased  books  and  had  left  with 
his  purchases.  Ma  cherie,  I  came  to  Spain,  not  for 
books,  but  for  this.  This  is  the  money  paid  to 
your  father  for  his  books !  "  And  he  held  up  the 
small  mahogany-colored  leather  purse  that  had  been 
Felicidad's  father's. 

Sometime  since,  when  with  cruel,  malicious  de- 
light he  had  started  to  tell  her  of  his  criminal  opera- 
tions, Felicidad  had  drawn  away  from  him  in  hor- 
ror. Now  she  started  up,  crying  out  in  supreme 
contempt : 

"So  you  stole  all  the  money  that  was  to  keep  my 
father  in  his  old  age!  Oh,  you — you  disgusting 
thief!" 

He  saw  then  that  he  had  been  too  open,  too  bold, 
too  braggard.  He  tried  to  quiet  and  soothe  her 
with  caressing  hands,  with  kisses.  But  her  lips 
had  become  cold  as  ice,  and  they  shrank  away  from 
his  in  profound  loathing. 

They  were  alone  in  the  regulation  separated  con- 
tinental coach.  She  tried  to  tear  herself  from  his 
arms  and  to  throw  herself  from  the  moving  train. 
Death  was  all  she  thought  of  at  first.  By  allowing 
herself  to  be  cajoled  into  running  off  with  a  crea- 
ture who  had  no  more  decency  than  to  rob  the 
father  of  his  all,  while  he  stole  from  him  also  his 
only  daughter,  she  had  disgraced  the  high  name  of 
Torreblanca  y  Moncada.  What  a  blow  this  would 
be  at  the  pride  of  the  eagle-haughty  Don  Jaime! 


64  THE  WOLF-CUB 

He  had  never  forgiven  her  mother  for  her  deser- 
tion. Of  a  surety,  never  would  he  forgive  Felici- 
dad! 

But  even  as  Felicidad  despaired  and  thought  of 
death,  there  had  come  to  her  the  protector  of  her 
childhood  days,  Jacinto  Quesada.  And  to  him  she 
now  appealed,  saying  with  the  ferocity  of  despera- 
tion: 

"The  leather  purse  is  still  strapped  under  his 
armpit  next  his  skin !  Go  quickly  and  take  it  from 
him !  You  should  have  found  it  in  the  search ; 
then  I  would  not  have  had  to  do  as  I  have  since 
done.  That  purse  contains  the  happiness  of  my 
father's  old  age.  Tear  it  from  that  yellow-livered 
Frenchman  and  return  it  in  some  way  to  Don 
Jaime !  " 

With  nervous  eager  hands  she  sought  to  hurry 
Jacinto  Quesada  from  the  carriage.  But  he  did 
not  think  to  resist  her,  so  glad  was  he  to  turn  from 
talk  to  action.  Then,  as  he  dashed  impetuously 
away,  she  said  in  a  half-whisper,  her  voice  breaking 
with  sobs: 

"If  God  has  intended  that  I  should  live  on  as  the 
wife  of  a  criminal,  I  will  suffer  my  fate  in  silence 
and  patience,  knowing  that  I,  in  my  waywardness, 
am  alone  to  blame.  But  my  father  shall  not  be 
robbed  of  his  buena  ventura — he  shall  not  end  his 
days  in  want  and  misery.  Seguramente,  no !  Dios 
de  mialma,  no! 

"I  have  dishonored  Don  Jaime — and  Don  Jaime 
most  certainly  will  kill  me  if  ever  he  sets  eyes  on 
me  again — but  no  lo  quiera  Dios!  that  I  should  suf- 
fer this  obscene  crime  against  him  to  be  committed ! 


THE  WOLF-CUB  65 

There  is  blood  and  pride  in  me  yet — I  am  yet  a 
Torreblanca  y  Moncada!  " 

Half-way  to  the  muster  of  people,  Jacinto 
Quesada  halted  to  throw  back  to  her  a  heartening 
look  and  to  call : 

"Despotic!  Softly! — gently!  And  watch,  my 
Felicidad,  how  easy  it  is  to  rob  the  robber!  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HIGH  overhead  a  bustard  sailed  on  slow,  lazy 
pinions,  but  below,  across  the  flat,  tawny  Man- 
chegan  plain,  not  a  gust  of  desert  dust  whirled,  not 
a  buck-rabbit  bounded,  not  a  cow  or  bullock  lum- 
bered. Hot  and  large,  empty  and  silent  was  the 
slow-crawling  afternoon. 

Jacinto  Quesada  faced  the  herded  people.  He 
had  been  gone  five  minutes ;  now,  in  visible  trepida- 
tion, they  awaited  the  upshot  of  his  return.  Their 
eyes  adhered  stickily  to  his ;  they  were  utterly  with- 
out voice.  Suddenly,  he  called,  "Bring  up  and 
search  the  Frenchman  again !  " 

Dios  hombre!  but  the  thing  was  swiftly  done. 
The  Frenchman's  protests  went  for  nothing;  he  was 
mauled  about,  roughed  and  ruffed,  fine-combed  and 
intimately  worked  over.  Jacinto  Quesada  himself 
was  lead-hound  in  the  second  search.  He  it  was 
who  drew  forth  the  small,  mahogany-colored  leather 
purse  from  its  nook  of  concealment  in  the  fellow's 
armpit. 

Looking  black  as  thunder,  Jacques  Ferou  re- 
treated once  again  into  the  background  of  people. 
There  situated,  he  gave  vent  freely  to  his  exaspera- 
tion and  fury,  muttering  savagely:  "Name  of  a 
name  of  a  name  of  a  name  of  a  dog!  "  Also,  many 
other  choice  French  curses.  But  the  more  he 
cursed,  the  more  acrimonious  and  virulent  he  be- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  67 

came.  His  face  went  livid  with  stirred-up  bile; 
his  slate-colored  eyes  snapped  in  bitter  resentment; 
he  bared  his  long  white  teeth  in  a  passionate  carniv- 
orous snarl  of  envenomed  hate. 

But  hate  for  whom?  At  first  his  hate  was  di- 
rected against  no  one  in  particular.  Because  he 
had  lost  the  purse,  life  had  suddenly  changed  to  a 
more  somber  color  and  bitterly  he  detested  the 
whole  world ! 

Then  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  Jacinto  Quesada, 
thinking,  for  obvious  reasons,  to  concentrate  his 
spleen  upon  him.  Jacinto  Quesada  caught  the 
Frenchman's  burning  look  and  smiled  contemptu- 
ously. That  contemptuous  smile  should  have  in- 
furiated the  Frenchman  all  the  more ;  but  strangely, 
it  did  not!  Somehow  the  Frenchman  sensed  that 
Jacinto  Quesada  was  not  the  prime  mover  in  his 
downfall;  and,  his  hate  still  at  a  loss  for  a  target  to 
direct  itself  against,  he  took  his  eyes  altogether  off 
the  youthful  bandolero. 

Then  Sacre  Bleu!  who  was  that  he  glimpsed  out 
of  the  ends  of  his  irises?  Was  it  not  Felicidad,  his 
promised  wife?  She  had  made  an  inconspicuous, 
an  almost  clandestine  exit,  from  the  third-class 
coach  wherein  she  had  hid  herself;  and  now  she 
was  furtively  seeking  to  rejoin  the  muster  of  peo- 
ple. Watching  her,  the  Frenchman  saw  plainly  that 
she  it  was  who  had  betrayed  him  to  the  bandoleros. 
And  his  whole  malignant  rancid  soul  bunched  and 
crouched  in  his  eyes,  and  threw  toward  her  a  look 
searing  and  scalding,  a  look  of  vitriolic  vindictive- 
ness. 

Ever  since  Felicidad  had  pushed  him  with  im- 


68  THE  WOLF-CUB 

petuosity  and  precipitation  from  the  third-class 
coach,  telling  him  to  go  quickly  and  tear  from  the 
Frenchman  the  purse,  Jacinto  Quesada  had  been 
dominated  by  the  will  of  the  girl,  doing  swiftly  and 
with  utter  obedience  that  which  she  had  bade  him 
do.  He  had  worked  in  a  white  vacuum  of  action, 
without  prejudice  or  plan  of  his  own,  without  fore- 
thought. Never  did  he  doubt  but  that  once  the 
mahogany-hued  purse  was  taken  from  the  French- 
man the  whole  wrong  would  automatically  right  it- 
self. And  now — what  should  he  do  with  the  purse? 
It  would  be  some  time  before  he  could  plan  ways 
and  means  to  return  it  safely  to  Don  Jaime. 

Of  a  sudden,  then,  to  make  matters  more  per- 
plexing, Jacinto  discovered  the  Frenchman  looking 
at  Felicidad  in  that  ugly  and  ominous  way.  At 
that,  he  ceased  worrying  about  the  mahogany-col- 
ored purse;  he  shoved  it  into  an  inside  pocket  of 
his  sheepskin  zamarra  and  straightway  forgot  it. 
The  question  of  its  disposal  was  an  insignificant 
matter;  a  greater  question  bothered  him.  What 
should  he  do  with  the  girl? 

As  one  wrestler  closes  with  another,  Jacinto 
Quesada  closed  with  that  great  question.  The  while 
he  gripped  and  folded  it  in  the  doughy  coils  of  his 
brains,  however,  he  did  not  stand  quiet  and  pensive. 
Enough  time  already  had  been  lost.  Loudly 
Quesada  shouted  orders. 

One  of  his  supernumeraries,  Pio  Estrada,  dipped 
down  into  the  dry  gutter  of  the  Arroyo  Seco  for 
the  horses.  The  others,  Rafael  Perez  and  Ignacio 
Garcia,  fell  to  prodding  the  herded  passengers  with 
their  carbines  back  upon  the  train.  Instantly  the 


THE  WOLF-CUB  69 

whole  panorama  took  on  a  brisker  look.  At  hap- 
hazard, into  any  of  the  coaches  which  presented 
themselves,  plunged  those  boarding  the  train,  not 
caring  in  what  style  they  rode,  or  what  comfort,  so 
long  as  they  soon  speeded  away. 

Pio  Estrada  reappeared,  leading  by  their  bridles 
three  hairy  Manchegan  ponies.  Another  galvanic 
command  from  Quesada  and,  from  the  work  of 
bundling  the  passengers  aboard  the  train,  hurriedly 
the  other  two  salteadores  detached  themselves. 
They  bustled  about  their  ponies,  roping  upon  them 
the  weighty  sacks  of  mail  and  conglomerate  loot, 
looking  to  their  curved  bits  and  cinch-straps.  With 
dispatch,  everything  was  being  prepared  for  a 
nimble  get-away. 

The  last  of  the  waylaid  passengers  were  crowding 
back  into  the  train,  the  engine  driver  and  his  stoker 
were  high  in  their  cab  once  more  and  busily  en- 
gaged in  getting  up  steam.  It  needed  only  the  word 
of  Quesada,  and  the  Manchegan  ponies  would  be 
mounted,  the  train  released  on  its  way,  and  the 
hold-up  of  the  Seville-to-Madrid  consummated. 

Still  dodging  the  great  question  of  the  disposal  of 
the  girl,  sparring  for  time,  Jacinto  Quesada  stole 
a  look  toward  where  he  last  had  seen  Felicidad. 
He  started  and  scowled.  She  and  the  Frenchman 
were  together.  They  were  among  those  few  not 
yet  distributed  through  the  various  coaches. 

As  the  laggards  milled  and  pushed  along  the  line 
of  opening  and  closing  doors,  along  the  line  of  com- 
partments crowded  and  jammed,  the  Frenchman, 
Jacques  Ferou,  had  sidled  near  her.  He  had 
caught  her  by  the  arm.  Now,  his  tall  athletic  body 


70  THE  WOLF-CUB 

bent  forward  sharply,  his  calculating  eyes  nar- 
rowed to  mere  blazing  slits,  the  nostrils  of  his  high 
predatory  nose  twitching  and  working,  his  whole 
ashy  face  working  and  grimacing  like  a  horrible 
mask  of  rubber,  he  was  whispering  into  her  ear ! 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  active  threat  in  the 
man's  attitude;  there  was  no  mistaking  the  real 
and  terrible  fear  in  the  girl's  cowering  pose.  She 
made  to  put  up  her  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  blows; 
she  trembled  like  a  tag  of  paper  hung  in  the 
wind ;  and  suddenly  the  cry  that  had  chilled  in  her 
throat  at  his  first  touch,  burst  up  through  the 
walls  of  her  lungs,  and  shrilled  out  in  a  terrified 
wail. 

Jacinto  Quesada  leaped,  as  though  lashed,  toward 
the  two.  The  lumpy  problem  was  smashed,  by  that 
cry,  into  smithereens.  The  great  question  de- 
manded action.  There  was  but  one  kind  of  action 
to  do. 

Rafael  Perez  bulked  up  before  him. 

"Give  the  word,  maestro,"  said  he,  "and  we  shall 
signal  the  engineer  to  start  the  train." 

"The  word  is  given,  then !  " 

Rafael  Perez  made  a  semaphore  of  his  arms. 
Another  salteador  farther  up  the  track  repeated  and 
relayed  the  signal.  The  locomotive  whistle  shrilled 
shortly  once,  then  the  bell  clanged  and  clanged 
with  warning  insistence. 

As  Quesada  flung  past  Rafael  Perez,  he  threw 
out  the  words: 

"Tell  Garcia  and  Estrada  to  mount  and  make 
ready  to  start  away,  the  moment  I  give  the  com- 
mand. You  wait  to  hold  my  pony  for  me.  As 


THE  WOLF-CUB  71 

was  the  plan,  my  pony  goes  unburdened  by  any  of 
the  sacks  of  stuff ;  but,  though  it  was  also  the  plan, 
I  will  not  linger  behind  to  cover  the  get-away.  I 
have  a  new  worry  to  trouble  me.  You  lagartos 
will  have  to  look  to  your  own  safety.  Should  we 
get  separated,  you  know  the  pass  in  the  mountains 
where  we  have  planned  to  meet.  Am  I  under- 
stood?" 

"Si,  maestro !  " 

With  the  emission  of  the  waste  steam  through  the 
chimney,  the  engine  of  the  Seville-to-Madrid  com- 
menced puffing  slowly;  the  cars  began  shuddering 
and  groaning  as  though  about  to  start.  Jacques 
Ferou  held  open  the  door  of  a  second-class  coach 
for  Felicidad.  But  it  was  already  packed  full  of 
men  and  she  hesitated  to  enter. 

"Come,  hurry !  "  roughly  ordered  the  Frenchman. 
"The  train  in  another  minute  will  start.  You  do 
not  wish  to  be  left  behind,  do  you?" 

"But  this  is  not  our  coach!  The  coach  we  rode 
in  thus  far  is  up  forward."  Almost  it  seemed  as  if 
the  girl  were  sparring  for  time. 

"Enter,  it  is  no  importa,  senora  dona!"  said, 
with  kindness,  one  of  the  men  within — a  man  in  a 
yellow  bullfighter's  costume,  one  of  the  picadores 
of  Morales'  cuadrilla. 

"Yes,  enter,  please,"  spoke  up  another  in  a  green 
costume,  the  great  Morales  himself.  "You  are 
most  welcome  here,  I  assure  you ! "  And  he 
reached  down,  seeking  to  help  her  climb  aboard. 

"Quick,  or  the  train  will  start  without  you !  "  cried 
another,  the  blue-eyed  American.  Then  in  English, 
for  suddenly  the  train  had  commenced  to  bang  back 


72  THE  WOLF-CUB 

and  forth,  and  he  had  become  beside  himself  with 
excitement : 

"Make  haste,  girl!  The  accursed  slow  freight 
is  about  to  move.  Gad!  here  it  goes." 

Just  as  the  train  puffed  rapidly  and,  with  a  roar 
and  a  tremendous  yank  started  off,  he  crowded  be- 
tween the  knees  of  the  cuadrilla  of  bullfighters, 
pushed  aside  Morales,  and  leaped  through  the  door. 
Staggering  from  the  precipitant  leap,  he  made 
toward  the  girl,  intending  to  lift  and  fling  her  into 
the  moving  train. 

A  man  came  between  them. 

"What  do  you  do  here?  "  cried  this  man  sharply. 
"Back,  into  the  coach !  " 

The  American  recognized  Jacinto  Quesada.  He 
tried  to  fling  past  him.  A  huge  long-barreled  re- 
volver showed  in  the  bandolero's  hand. 

"Back,  you,  into  your  coach !  "  cried  Quesada 
once  again.  "And  you,  you  dog  of  a  Frenchman! 
Quick!  enter!  or  I  will  shoot  you  through  the  fat 
of  your  breeches !  " 

Swiftly  the  Frenchman  went.  He  dashed  after 
the  moving  coach,  caught  up  with  it  and  flung  him- 
self headlong  in  upon  the  floor.  Then  he  pulled 
himself  to  his  feet  again,  went  over  to  the  open 
door,  and  banged  it  shut. 

The  American  did  not  budge. 

"But  the  girl!"  he  shouted.  He  drove  at  the 
bandolero.  Quesada  dodged  his  fist.  He  reversed 
the  revolver  in  his  hand  and  swiftly  crashed  it  butt- 
first  down  upon  the  American's  forehead. 

The  American  reeled  back,  stunned,  falling. 
Quesada  looked  down  the  length  of  train  moving 


THE  WOLF-CUB  73 

up  toward  him;  he  saw  another  open-doored  coach 
rattling  near.  Suddenly  stooping,  he  tackled  at 
the  legs  of  the  American,  lifted  him  bodily  into 
the  air,  and  flung  him  back  upon  the  floor  of  the 
open,  moving  coach.  The  American  never  knew 
how  he  boarded  that  train  no  more  than  he  would 
had  he  been  a  soulless  sack  of  barley ! 

All  over  sweat  and  panting  deeply,  Jacinto 
Quesada  turned  to  Felicidad. 

"Come;  I  must  take  you  with  me,"  he  said  to 
her,  "to  my  mother  in  Minas  de  la  Sierra.  We  will 
send  back  the  purse  to  your  father.  We  will  tell 
him  the  true  story  of  events.  Depend  upon  it,  my 
Felicidad,  he  will  forgive  you,  he  will  relent.  Un- 
til he  does  that,  however,  my  mother  will  take  care 
of  you,  and  I  will  be  your  guardian  angel,  besides." 
He  could  not  prevent  a  smile.  And  he  added,  "A 
sinful  and  thieving  sort  of  guardian  angel,  but  one 
strong  to  protect  you,  you  may  be  sure  of  that! 
Come !  Up  on  my  horse !  " 

He  swung  her  up  upon  his  Manchegan  pony. 
Before  her,  he  mounted.  He  dug  his  heels  in  the 
pony's  sleek  mouse-colored  barrel.  They  started 
away. 

"Hold  tight  with  your  little  hands,  my  Felici- 
dad !  "  he  remarked.  "It  will  be  fast  riding  for 
quite  awhile." 

"Ah,  thankfully  I  go  with  you,  Jacinto!"  she 
said,  after  a  little,  despite  the  unevenness  and  hard- 
ship of  their  fast  pace.  "Jacques  Ferou  whispered 
to  me  that  he  would  show  me,  once  we  got  to  Madrid, 
how  the  Apaches,  the  depraved  criminals  of  Paris, 
treat  those  women  who  to  them  are  unfaithful !  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

AFTER  lumbering  slowly  across  the  rickety  Ar- 
royo Seco  bridge,  the  Seville-to-Madrid  swung  east- 
ward on  its  gleaming  rails  and  pursued,  across  the 
desert  uplands,  a  course  parallel  to  that  of  the 
bandoleros.  From  the  coach  windows  on  one  side, 
the  passengers  could  see  Rafael  Perez,  Ignacio  Gar- 
cia, and  Pio  Estrada  fleeing  across  the  parched  and 
tawny  flat  on  their  plunder-laden,  loping  Manchegan 
ponies.  They  were  speeding  for  the  distant  gray 
and  purple  mountains. 

A  jump  behind  these  worthies  and  rapidly  over- 
taking them  were  Jacinto  Quesada  and  the  golden- 
haired  girl.  Distinctly  the  passengers  could  make 
out  Felicidad  and  her  kidnaper.  And  the  sight  was 
as  a  red  muleta  to  a  Miura  bull. 

A  young  bride  stolen  from  her  husband!  A 
young  girl  abducted  by  highwaymen !  That  was  she 
behind  the  last  of  the  retreating  bandoleros — see 
the  flying  green  skirt,  see  the  glint  of  her  golden 
hair  in  the  sun!  They  were  taking  her  off  with 
them,  carrying  her  away  into  the  savage  mountains ! 
Had  there  been  no  men  among  all  those  creatures 
in  trousers  scattered  throughout  the  train — no  men 
to  rise  in  their  masculinity  and  to  sacrifice  their 
lives  if  need  be,  but  at  all  hazards  to  prevent  this 
abominable  crime? 

Women  screamed,  and  women  prayed.  Hideous 
visions  rose  before  their  eyes;  visions  of  the  ban- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  75 

doleros  in  some  craggy  retreat  shaking  dice  for 
possession  of  the  girl!  One  of  the  black-clad  nuns 
fainted  outright. 

On  its  gleaming  rails,  the  Seville-to-Madrid 
swerved  once  again.  With  distance,  the  fleeing 
horsemen  grew  small,  smaller.  They  were  little 
as  bounding  rabbits;  then  they  were  little  as  low- 
skimming  birds.  And  then  at  last  they  lost  them- 
selves in  the  ocean  of  ilex  and  thorny  acacia,  the 
dun  immensity  of  sand. 

The  Seville-to-Madrid  had  been  under  way  for 
a  full  twenty  minutes  and  was  nearing  the  steel 
cantilever  bridge  over  the  river  Zancura,  when  a 
man,  lurching  heavily  and  looking  very  sick,  picked 
his  steps  slowly  and  cautiously  along  the  footboard 
on  the  right  side  of  the  train — that  footboard 
used  by  the  train  guards  in  going  from  compartment 
to  compartment  of  the  many-coached  continental- 
style  caravan,  collecting  tickets  and  locking  the  doors 
between  stops.  The  man  clung  to  door  knobs,  win- 
dow jambs  and  window  sills.  And  gradually  he 
worked  forward  along  half  the  length  of  the  train. 

At  last  he  had  progressed  to  a  second-class  coach 
that  resounded  with  the  voices  of  indignant  and 
outraged  men,  that  quivered  and  rang  with  bass  and 
baritone  curses  in  both  Spanish  and  French.  When 
he  had  closed  in  upon  this  coach,  the  man  on  the 
footboard  smiled  triumphantly,  yanked  open  the 
door,  and  flung  himself  within. 

For  a  space,  it  was  not  as  though  he  had  entered 
a  crowded  coach;  it  was  as  though  he  had  flung 
himself  into  a  surf  of  rolling  breakers.  Masses 
of  words  struck  him  with  the  velocity  and  flying 


;6  THE  WOLF-CUB 

weight  of  charging  masses  of  water.  He  spread 
his  feet,  braced  his  shoulders  and  chest  to  the  im- 
pacting masses  of  words,  and  waited. 

The  pounding  tumulting  seas  crashed  over  him; 
he  held  his  footing;  they  receded,  drew  back,  ebbed 
away.  Then,  before  the  great  zipizape  of  words 
could  recommence,  he  held  up  his  hands  for  silence. 
Silence  was  given  him.  He  said : 

"I  am  a  Norte  Americano,  a  Yanqui.  In  my 
country  if  a  girl  were  kidnaped  by  bandits,  quite 
well  I  know  what  we  Yanquis  would  do.  But  this 
is  Spain,  not  the  United  States.  What  are  you 
Spaniards  going  to  do?" 

"What  can  we  do,  Senor  Americano?  "  asked  one 
of  the  cuadrilla  of  bullfighters,  a  banderillero  by 
his  dress.  "We  ask  you  that — what  can  we  do  ?  " 

"Do  not  think  it  an  everyday  thing,"  spoke  up 
the  matador,  Morales,  "for  blossoming  girls  to  be 
stolen  by  Spanish  highwaymen  and  carried  off  into 
the  mountains.  One  reads  about  such  happenings 
in  the  bizarre  and  romantic  novels  of  the  elder 
Dumas;  but  one  does  not  think  to  see  such  things 
occur  in  real  life. 

"You  would  search  far  in  our  country's  history 
for  a  parallel  to  this  outrageous  crime !  Jose  Maria. 
Diego  Corrientes,  Agua-Dulce  and  Visco  el  Borje 
left  our  women  severely  alone.  They  were  simple- 
souled  men  of  the  people,  risen  against  oppression. 
Even  as  would  any  humble  and  pious  and  hard- 
working labrador,  so  these  bandoleros  en  grande 
feared  God  and  public  opinion.  Right  well  they 
knew  they  could  continue  to  exist  as  outlaws  only  by 
reason  of  the  favor  of  Spanish  public  opinion,  not 


THE  WOLF-CUB  77 

to  speak  of  the  favor  of  God.  And  they  set  the 
fashion  for  future  Spanish  outlaws.  They  made 
the  conventions  by  which  all  bandoleros  are  sup- 
posed to  conduct  themselves  to-day.  The  bando- 
leros, just  before  this  man  Quesada,  honored  those 
conventions.  El  Vivillo  and  Pernales  committed 
no  crimes  against  Spanish  women. 

"Senor  Americano,  you  may  have  noticed  that 
we  Spaniards  accord  our  bandoleros  a  certain  re- 
spect. Because  they  have  been  altogether  mascu- 
line, varonil,  and  yet  treated  our  womenkind  with 
the  utmost  reverence,  the  bandoleros  have  wrung 
from  us  this  esteem  which  amounts  sometimes  even 
to  love. 

"And  even  this  Jacinto  Quesada  to-day!  He 
treated  me  with  great  consideration,  chatting  pleas- 
antly about  his  love  of  bullfighting  and  other  very 
human  things.  And  he  struck  me  as  being  a  ban- 
dolero of  the  splendid  good  old  sort — the  Jose  Maria, 
the  Visco  el  Borje  sort!  Why,  he  even  asked  after 
the  health  of  my  wife,  Marta,  and  my  two  little 
ones !  But  now !  To  find  out  that  he  is  a  renegade, 
a  damnable  turncoat  from  the  old  bandolero  code, 
an  inhuman  wretch,  a  despicable  rapist— Porvida!" 

Morales'  boyishly  rounded  face  flamed  with  anger 
and  with  a  great  deal  more  of  shame. 

"In  my  country,"  said  the  American,  "should  a 
man  abduct  a  girl,  a  posse  would  be  organized  at 
once,  the  criminal  pursued,  brought  to  bay,  and 
made  to  pay  with  his  life  for  the  crime.  The 
posse  would  be  composed  of  every  rich  man,  poor 
man,  beggar  man  and  thief  in  the  community,  and 
it  would  never  rest  until  its  work  was  completely 


78  THE  WOLF-CUB 

done  and  the  girl  brought  safely  back  to  her  prom- 
ised husband." 

Three  of  the  bullfighters  spoke  up  at  once. 

"A  posse  ?     We  have  never  heard  of  that !  " 

"Well,  I  come  from  the  western  part  of  the 
United  States,  and  if  you  ever  had  lived  there  for 
even  a  short  time,  you  could  not  be  so  blissfully 
ignorant.  When  I  say  a  posse  I  mean  a  posse 
comitatus,  which  is  a  lawyer's  term  for  the  citizens 
who  may  be  summoned  to  assist  an  officer  in  en- 
forcing the  law.  My  father  was  a  pioneer  in  the 
State  of  California;  he  made  his  start  in  Inyo 
County  mines  and  his  millions  in  Bakersfield  oil 
wells;  and  many's  the  story  he  has  told  me  of 
quickly  formed  posses  and  their  rapid,  sure  work. 
We  would  be  forming  a  posse  of  a  sort,  if  we  all 
agreed  to  go  after  this  Jacinto  Quesada  and  bring 
back  the  girl." 

One  of  the  two  yellow-costumed  picadores  was 
on  his  feet,  his  swarthy  face  ruddy  with  agitation 
and  strong  emotion. 

"Then,  in  the  name  of  Spanish  womanhood,  let 
us  do  that !  "  he  cried.  "I,  Coruncho  Lopez,  the 
most  superb  picador  in  Spain,  volunteer  to  be  one 
of  the  posse!  " 

"And  I,  Alfonso  Robledo,  a  banderillero  as  great 
as  any !  " 

"And  I—" 

Suddenly,  those  about  to  volunteer  became  tongue- 
tied;  the  whole  cuadrilla  of  bullfighters  looked 
sheepish  and  confused.  The  youthful  matador, 
Manuel  Morales,  had  stepped  before  them,  on  his 
face  a  cold  and  contemptuous  scowl. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  79 

"You  are  the  peones  of  my  cuadrilla,"  he  said 
brutally,  "and  I  am  your  maestro.  You  will  do  ex- 
actly that  which  I  order  you  to  do  and  nothing  else ! 
But,  perhaps,  you  have  forgotten  the  strict  laws  of 
discipline  of  our  profession?" 

Shamefaced  and  abject,  the  whole  cuadrilla  re- 
plied at  once,  "Forgive  us,  maestro.  We  await 
your  orders." 

Morales  seemed  to  feel  better  after  that.  With 
the  easy  magnificence  of  a  matador  and  maestro,  he 
turned  to  the  American. 

"Senor  Americano,"  he  said,  "I  have  become  a 
successful  and  renowned  espada  only  after  years 
of  hard  work  and  vigilant  heed  to  the  duties  of 
my  profession.  And  now  that  I  am  the  great 
Morales,  I  am  as  much  a  slave  to  my  fame  as  any 
of  my  peones  is  the  slave  to  me.  In  his  offices  in 
Seville  sits  my  manager,  the  Senor  Don  Arturo 
Guerra,  signing  contract  after  contract;  and  these 
contracts  I  must  fulfill,  or  lose  much  money  and 
much  prestige  with  the  president es  of  bull  rings  and 
with  the  aficionados.  Therefore,  I  must  be  dis- 
creet, circumspect,  and  full  of  forethought. 

"Senor  Americano,  these  peones  have  no  fran- 
chise to  speak  for  themselves.  They  are  but  my 
thoughtless,  irresponsible  children.  If  I  did  not 
rule  them  with  a  hand  of  iron,  they  would  be  off  on 
a  thousand  wild  escapades  in  a  month !  But  one  of 
them,  just  now,  said  a  very  splendid  thing.  'In 
the  name  of  Spanish  womanhood,'  he  said,  'let  us 
form  of  ourselves  a  posse ! ' 

"Carajo!  I  am  discreet,  circumspect,  and  full 
of  forethought  as  the  great  Morales  should  be,  but 


8o  THE  WOLF-CUB 

my  heart  tells  me  those  words  are  good  words !  My 
heart  leaps  with  eagerness  to  be  pursuing  the  despic- 
able Jacinto  Quesada  in  the  name  of  Spanish 
womanhood ! 

"What  are  contracts!  What  is  money!  What 
is  prestige,  fame!  Senor  Americano,  join  out  with 
me,  and  we  will  chase  this  scoundrel  up  and  down 
the  peninsula  until  we  have  bayed  him  down  and 
brought  back  the  girl !  If  you  wish  it,  I  will  com- 
mand rny  whole  cuadrilla  to  come  with  us ;  but  it  is 
my  own  wish,  that  we  two  go  alone  and  unencum- 
bered. This  same  Jacinto  Quesada  who  stole  the 
girl  called  me  one  of  the  three  bravest  men  in  Spain. 
And  he  named  himself  as  the  second  most  brave 
man,  and  you  as  the  third !  Let  us  go  then,  we  two 
brave  men  together !  Two  such  as  we  are  equal  to 
a  posse  of  a  dozen  common  men!  " 

The  blue-eyed  American  looked  a  little  uncom- 
fortable; he  did  not  quite  know  how  to  take  the 
matador's  flamboyant  words.  But  he  answered, 
heartily  enough : 

"Sure  I'll  join  out  with  you!  My  name  is  Car- 
son— John  Fremont  Carson — and  here's  my  hand 
on  it!  But  better  take  the  whole  cuadrilla  along 
with  us.  We  two  may  be  as  wonderful  as  you  say 
we  are,  but  just  the  same,  numbers  count,  and  every 
man  can  do  his  little  bit  to  get  back  the  girl.  And 
now — " 

"In  this  posse  I  am  included,  too,  of  course! " 

It  was  the  Frenchman,  Jacques  Ferou.  He,  the 
one  to  all  outward  appearances  most  injured  and 
aggrieved  by  Jacinto  Quesada's  outrageous  conduct, 
had  played  little  part  in  the  proceedings  up  to  this 


THE  WOLF-CUB  81 

moment.  But  now,  his  tone  was  very  peremptory 
and  harsh,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  meant  business. 

"Of  course!" 

"For  los  Clavos  de  Cristo!  we  can't  leave  you 
out!" 

The  American  produced  a  pencil  and  notebook. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "to  arrange  the  details. 
There  will  be  horses  needed,  and  provisions  and 
guides  and — " 

"It  will  be  mules  in  the  mountains,"  said  one  bull- 
fighter. 

"Manchegan  ponies  are  cheap,"  said  another. 

"We  will  need  Mausers  and  revolvers,  too,"  said 
a  third.  "We  cannot  conduct  a  man-hunt  without 
weapons." 

"But  how  will  we  finance  the  expedition  ?  "  asked 
the  practical  Frenchman.  "Myself,  I  have  not  a 
franc,  what  you  call  a  peseta.  And  I  have  no  means 
of  replenishing  my  rifled  pockets !  " 

"Ah,  then,  it  is  for  me  to  finance  the  expedi- 
tion!" cried  the  matador,  Morales.  "I  will  tele- 
graph to  Seville  when  we  get  off  at  the  next  stop, 
and  so  much  money  will  be  sent  me  by  Don  Arturo, 
my  manager,  that  you  will  be  surprised,  astounded ! 
It  is  just  that  I  should  do  this — I  and  my  bullfighters 
make  up  the  bulk  of  this  troop ;  I  am  the  most  rich 
of  you  all." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  American 
dryly.  "Please  allow  me  to  go  halves  with  you." 

"Ah,  I  had  forgotten;  you  Americans  are  all  as 
rich  as  Monte  Cristo.  You  and  I  will  share  the  ex- 
pense, then.  We  get  off  at  the  next  stop  and  make 
our  start  after  this  Jacinto  Quesada,  do  we  not?  " 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  two  were  Spaniards.  They  wore  the  uni- 
form of  the  Guardia  Civil,  and  they  rode  hairy, 
vigorous  little  police  ponies.  They  had  been  in  the 
saddle  since  daybreak,  persistently  pushing  south- 
ward. The  cobs  were  dog-weary  but  as  steady- 
paced  as  machines  of  clockwork;  the  men  were 
hunched  of  shoulder,  heavy-headed,  their  faces 
coated  with  a  gray-brown  powder  of  dust. 

They  drew  rein  atop  a  naked  hummock  in  the 
immensity  of  sand  and  ilex  and  thorny  acacia.  At 
the  hip  of  the  younger  and  taller  of  the  two  was 
slung  a  pair  of  binoculars.  The  one,  and  then  the 
other,  trained  these  glasses  upon  the  rolling,  ever- 
lasting veldt  and  swept  the  horizon  round,  their 
scrutiny  long,  patient,  and  searching. 

All  the  long  morning  and  the  longer,  more  dreary 
afternoon,  they  had  seen  upon  the  endless  despo- 
blado  only  half -wild  cattle  and  half -wild  asses,  and 
an  occasional  high-soaring  falcon  or  an  ugly,  three- 
foot-long  eyed-lizard.  And  this  time  was  not  the 
first  time  they  had  paused  to  peer  through  the 
binoculars;  they  had  paused  often,  and  then  con- 
tinued on  without  remark.  Now,  however,  as  he 
put  back  the  glasses  in  their  leather  sheath,  the 
younger  policeman  rather  bitterly  said: 

"There  is  no  one  abroad  upon  La  Mancha.  Not 
even  a  solitary  salteador  de  camino  hiding  out  from 
us  of  the  Guardia  Civil." 


THE  WOLF-CUB  83 

"Yet  I  tell  you,  Miguel — most  surely  are  they  out 
there  somewhere ! "  returned  his  companero,  ve- 
hemently dissenting.  "How  could  they  have  at- 
tained, so  soon,  to  the  Sierra  Morena  ahead — I  ask 
you  that !  " 

Touching  their  ponies  with  their  barbed  heels, 
they  enterprised  once  more  upon  the  long  traverse. 
There  was  a  terrible  sun  that  day,  a  sun  African 
in  the  ferocity  of  its  passion.  The  sun  glare  tor- 
tured their  eyes.  It  caused  their  lacquered  three- 
cornered  police  hats,  made  of  shiny  patent  leather, 
to  reflect  and  flash  like  the  mirrors  of  a  heliograph. 
The  men  sweated  until  they  were  as  dry  as  cinders 
and  could  sweat  no  more. 

In  the  more  subdued  glare  of  the  late  afternoon, 
the  two  came  at  length  to  the  brown  rolling  foot- 
hills toward  which  they  had  been  making  through- 
out the  whole  hideous  day.  The  foothills  billowed 
away,  in  undulations  rising  even  higher  and  higher, 
until  finally  they  became  part  of  a  distant  and  pur- 
ple alpland  of  massive  and  lofty  peaks — the  ex- 
alted spires  and  crags  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 

As  their  jaded  ponies  took  doggedly  the  initial 
r-ise,  the  younger  and  taller  of  the  two  policemen 
— he  called  Miguel — drew  from  his  breast  a  yellow 
paper  on  which  was  mimeographed  a  copy  of  a 
typewritten  telegram.  He  commenced  to  read 
aloud. 

The  great  Manuel  Morales — his  full  cuadrilla — 
an  American,  the  Senor  Don  John  Fremont  Carson, 
and  a  Frenchman,  name  unknown.  It  is  especially 
important  that  you  discover  news  of  the  American, 


84  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Carson ;  he  is  a  millionaire  and  of  high  social  posi- 
tion in  his  own  country.  Both  the  American  Am- 
bassador and  the  Bank  of  Spain  desire  to  ascertain 
his  whereabouts,  his  reason  for  carrying  such  a 
large  sum  of  money  upon  his  person,  and  his  pur- 
pose in  setting  off  into  the  wilderness.  The  Bank 
of  Spain  is  also  much  interested  in  the  well-being 
of  Manuel  Morales,  for  he  also  withdrew  a  large 
account  by  telegraph  before  disappearing  from 
sight. 

The  nine  men  left  the  Seville-to-Madrid  at  Al- 
cazar de  San  Juan,  four  days  ago,  secured  horses 
and  enough  provisions  to  last  them  a  week  and, 
traveling  together,  rode  southward  towards  the 
Sierra  Morena.  They  were  well-armed,  having 
bought  carbines  and  automatic  pistols  from  the  Jew- 
ish cacique  of  Alcazar,  Dicenta.  They  told  no  one 
their  errand.  They  took  no  guides. 

You  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  find  them  and  give  them 
escort.  Report  all  information  to  me — Echegaray, 
Ministro  de  Gobernacion. 

He  looked  up  now,  the  young  smooth-faced  police- 
man who  had  been  reading,  and  turned  his  handsome 
head  to  gaze  back  over  the  long  monotony  of  pur- 
gatorial desert.  It  was  the  words,  scribbled  in  ink 
in  a  strong  hand  and  added  like  a  postscript  or  an- 
notation to  the  telegraphed  instructions,  which  he 
went  on  to  read  aloud  now : 

They  are  somewhere  in  Ciudad  Real  or  Jaen. 
The  country  they  are  traversing  is  lawless  and 
sparsely-populated,  a  country  infested  with  ladrones, 
among  whom  the  most  notable  is  the  notorious 
Quesada. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  85 

Spain  will  never  forgive  us  if  any  harm  should 
come  to  the  great  Morales.  And  we  must  answer 
to  the  American  Ambassador  should  this  John  Fre- 
mont Carson  be  not  safeguarded.  The  Constabu- 
lary will  please  give  its  most  careful  attention  to  the 
search. — Alvarez,  Captain-General  of  the  Guardia 
Civil  for  the  District. 

Putting  the  yellow  paper  back  in  the  breast  of 
his  tight  blue  jacket  faced  with  red,  the  younger 
policeman,  Miguel,  rode  on  up  the  slope  beside  his 
companero — a  squat,  fiercely  mustached  and  ape- 
like fellow. 

"Pascual,"  he  asked  presently,  "would  you  know 
that  magnificent  one,  Morales,  should  you  meet  him 
face  to  face — " 

"Seguramente,  yes!  Have  I  not  watched  him 
murder  a  thousand  bulls?"  „ 

Then,  thoughtfully,  the  apelike  one  added: 

"Once  we  chance  upon  their  spoor,  once  we  scent 
them  from  afar,  it  should  be  a  most  simple  matter 
for  us  of  the  Guardia  Civil  to  run  down  these 
fools-errant  of  Manuel  Morales.  We  know  these 
plains  and  foothills;  they  do  not.  And  they  are  a 
large  troop  and  must  make  a  great  to-do  of  noise 
and  dust  whenever  they  move  about.  It  is  not  as 
though  we  seek  a  bandolero  riding  alone,  friend 
Miguel.  A  bandolero  riding  alone  is  a  very  fox 
to  catch !  " 

"Ah,  that  Jacinto  Quesada !  "  ejaculated  the  other 
with  boyish  enthusiasm.  "Is  not  he  the  crafty 
lizard,  the  sly  tricky  one?  He  has  given  us  more 
work  to  do  than  any  twenty  other  lawbreakers  in 
Spain.  If  Morales  and  his  fools-errant — as  you 


86  THE  WOLF-CUB 

call  them,  Pascual — conceal  their  movements  but 
half  so  well  as  does  he,  we  will  be  chasing  will-o'- 
the-wisps  for  the  next  hundred  years !  But,  by  the 
way,  Pascual,  could  you  describe  Jacinto  Quesada 
to  me?" 

The  older  man  pondered. 

"That  is  most  difficult,"  he  said  at  length,  chewing 
in  a  ruminating  manner  one  end  of  his  black  mus- 
tache. "He  is  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  this  Quesada; 
he  is  not  a  native  of  La  Mancha.  Few  men  here- 
abouts could  describe  him,  I  think;  he  does  not  go 
abroad  much  to  fiestas  and  wedding  feasts,  since  he 
took  to  the  highroads,  you  know.  And  the  few  folk 
that  have  met  him  since  he  became  a  bandolero 
have  been  too  frightened  to  note  well  what  he 
looked  like.  But  I  have  been  told  by  a  paisano  of 
his,  a  serrano  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  that  he  looks 
very  much  like  me,  myself !  " 

That  last  was  said  with  downright  pride.  The  po- 
liceman, Pascual,  did  not  even  take  trouble  to  conceal 
his  vain  pleasure  in  the  thought,  his  flattered  conceit 
in  himself.  He  sat  a  little  straighter  in  the  saddle 
and,  with  self-conscious  braggadocio,  fingered  his 
black  mustache,  looking  about  him  fiercely  the 
while. 

He  was  squat,  broadly  uncouth  of  shoulder,  prog- 
nathous jawed — an  ugly  apelike  sort.  There  was 
something  bestially  predatory  in  the  simian  look  of 
him  which  the  black  mustache  rather  heightened  than 
detracted  from.  He  did  not  resemble  any  of  his 
immediate  progenitors  who  had  been  men  of  Aragon 
and  Guardias  Civiles  every  one.  More  he  re- 
sembled, perhaps,  certain  Miquelets  and  reclaimed 


THE  WOLF-CUB  87 

brigands  from  whose  loins  his  line  had  originally 
sprung.  He  did  not  look  at  all  like  Jacinto 
Quesada ! 

The  youthful  Civil  Guard  eyed  the  apelike  Pascual 
a  moment,  and  then  derisively  laughed. 

"That  is  strange,"  he  said,  with  a  sneer.  "Cer- 
tain Gypsies  of  my  acquaintance  have  seen  Quesada 
in  the  mountains  and  on  the  plains.  Outlaws  such 
as  he  often  repair  to  the  Gitanos  when  hard-pressed, 
you  know;  the  Gypsies  look  upon  them  as  blood- 
brothers,  for  the  Gypsies  are  all  thieves.  And  it  is 
strange,  Pascual,  but  these  Gypsies  of  my  acquaint- 
ance have  told  me  that  /  was  the  living  image  of 
Jacinto  Quesada.  He  is  very  young,  they  say,  little 
more  than  a  boy  even,  and  he  is  tall  and  smooth- 
shaven  and  handsome,  indeed,  very  much  like 
me!" 

Youthful,  tall,  smooth  of  face  and  very  handsome 
was,  indeed,  that  policeman  called  Miguel.  He  was 
lean,  supple  and  gallant  looking  as  a  sword  of 
Toledo. 

"Fools  and  children  tell  the  truth,"  returned  the 
apelike  Pascual,  quoting  an  old  Spanish  proverb. 
Then,  barbing  it  with  a  sting  of  his  own  making,  he 
added :  "But  Gitanos,  never !  " 

Surlily,  he  rode  on  ahead,  the  while  the  other  slid 
down  from  his  horse  and  ran  in  pursuit  of  his 
shiny  leather  police  hat  which  was  tumbling  in  a 
quick  succession  of  flip-flops  down  the  hill.  He  had 
knocked  it  from  his  own  head  inadvertently  when, 
while  talking,  he  had  raised  the  binoculars  to  his 
eyes  for  another  look  back  over  La  Mancha. 

After  a  short  erratic  chase,  Miguel  retrieved  his 


88  THE  WOLF-CUB 

recalcitrant  headgear;  but,  strangely,  he  did  not 
return  immediately  to  the  saddle.  Instead,  stoop- 
ing low,  he  stood  motionless  near  the  place  where  he 
had  picked  up  the  hat,  peering  down  as  at  a  nugget 
of  gold  half  hidden  in  the  dust  and  grass.  Then, 
becoming  altogether  inexplicable  in  his  actions,  he 
went  scurrying  off  up  the  slope  at  a  tangent,  his 
body  bent  far  forward,  his  head  turned  toward  the 
ground,  and  his  face  sharp  and  pale  with  excite- 
ment and  expectancy. 

"Caspita!"  he  was  heard  by  Pascual  to  mutter. 
"Caspita !  "  -"Wonderful !  Wonderful !  " 

Every  so  often,  he  halted  and  stooped  lower, 
crouching  almost  to  the  very  ground.  It  was  as 
though,  each  time,  he  discovered  something  of  sober 
interest  to  him  and  paused  to  examine  that  some- 
thing. 

Pascual  followed  him  with  puzzled  and  astounded 
eyes.  At  last,  as  the  curious  performance  per- 
sisted, he  called  out,  "Dios  hombre!  what  ails  you, 
man?" 

His  face  flushed,  his  eyes  smiling  with  triumph, 
the  youthful  and  handsome  Miguel  came  back  to  the 
spot  where  he  had  started  his  mysterious  shadow- 
dance  up  the  hillside. 

"Pascual  Montara ! "  he  called.  "This  way, 
quick!" 

As  the  other  trotted  his  pony  over,  he  pointed  a 
finger  to  the  ground  before  him  and  said,  "Do  you 
see  that  which  I  see,  Pascual?  " 

"Seguramente,  yes." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"Carajo,  Miguel!  it  is  only  a  handful  of  grass, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  89 

plucked  and  left  in  a  tiny  hillock  by  some  one." 

"Bueno!  But  who  plucked  it,  then,  and  left  it  in 
a  heap  upon  the  ground  ?  " 

"Zut!  How  should  I  know?  Who  13  it  plucks 
grass,  anyway  ?  " 

The  young  policeman  seemed  to  take  joy  in  the 
role  of  Grand  Inquisitor.  He  smiled  a  superior 
smile  and  moved  on  a  few  feet,  and  then  again 
halted. 

"And  this — what  is  this?"  he  demanded,  point- 
ing before  him  once  more. 

"You  buffoon,  you — what  game  are  you  playing 
with  me?  It  is  only  another  hillock  of  plucked 
grass,  as  any  fool  can  see !  " 

"And  this  ?  "  The  Grand  Inquisitor  had  moved 
on  another  couple  of  yards. 

"I  shall  call  it  a  mountain,  an  it  please  you 
better.  The  Devil  take  you  and  your  little  hills  of 
grass,  Miguel  Alvarado !  " 

"And  this  ?  "  Once  again  the  policeman  with  the 
superior  smile  had  moved  on  up  the  hillside.  But 
this  time  he  did  not  point  at  any  hillock  of  dead 
herbage. 

"That?  Why,  that  is  only  a  cross  made  by  two 
sticks  that  have  fallen  by  chance  one  upon  the 
other." 

"Which  way  does  the  longest  arm  point,  Pas- 
cual?" 

"Straight  up  and  down  the  slope." 

"Muy  bueno!  I  have  pointed  out  everything  to 
you,  then.  Chew  upon  what  you  have  seen, 
Spaniard ! " 

He  returned  to  his  horse,  mounted  and  started  on. 


90  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  apelike  Pascual,  his  face  a  study  in  curiosity, 
drew  alongside. 

"You  have  asked  me  a  lot  of  questions,  Miguel 
Alvarado,"  he  said.  "Now  I  will  thank  you  a 
thousand  times  if  you  will  explain  your  great  mys- 
tery away." 

"Great  mystery — za!  It  is  only  because  you  are 
a  lunkhead  that  you  perceive  any  great  mystery  here. 
There  are  Gitanos  encamped  in  the  hills  ahead,  that 
is  all!" 

"Did  those  hillocks  of  plucked  grass  spell  out  that 
for  you  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  the  crossed  sticks,  also.  The  hillocks 
and  the  crossed  sticks  are  the  Gypsies'  trail — what 
they  call  their  patteran.  They  leave  them  in  their 
wake  that  their  brethren,  who  have  lagged  behind, 
may  be  guided  by  them  to  the  meeting-place." 

"Y  pues?  "  grunted  Pascual.  "Well,  and  what  of 
that?  It  is  a  matter  of  no  moment  to  me.  But 
hola !  why  turn  your  horse  to  the  right  ?  " 

"I  am  going  to  the  camp  of  the  Zincali.  They 
may  have  word  of  these  men  we  seek.  Should  they 
have  seen  Morales  and  the  rest  upon  the  plains,  or 
even  have  heard  of  their  presence  abroad,  they  will 
tell  me  such  news  as  they  have  by  chance  acquired. 
Do  not  come  with  me,  Pascual  Montara,  if  you  do 
not  wish  to." 

Now,  it  is  against  all  orders  and  precedent  for  one 
of  the  Spanish  constabulary  to  go  where  his  fellow 
goes  not ;  the  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  hunt  forever 
in  braces.  The  apelike  Pascual  grumbled,  but  loy- 
ally he  followed  his  arrogant  and  imperious  cama- 
rada. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  91 

Their  horses  topped  the  rise  and,  suddenly  taking 
heart,  entered  briskly  a  tiny  barranca  set  transverse 
between  the  hilltops.  It  was  only  a  long  gully  or 
dingle,  but  it  was  cool  and  reposeful  with  wild  olive 
and  algarroba  trees,  white  buckthorn,  holly  and 
arbutus.  Through  gutters  strewn  with  moss-over- 
grown boulders,  edged  with  rhododendrons  and 
overarched  by  oleanders,  raced  down  the  whole 
length  of  it  a  glad,  loud-chattering  run  of  water. 

Sighing  their  delight,  the  two  surprised  and  pleas- 
ured policemen  rode  under  an  upstanding  and 
ancient  wild  olive  at  its  portal  and  plunged  into  the 
secret,  beautiful  place.  Instantly  a  great  flutter  of 
butterflies  of  all  sizes  and  colors  lifted  in  spangled 
clouds  about  them. 

"But  the  Gypsies  may  be  a  great  way  ahead  in  the 
hills!"  grumbled  Pascual  filled  with  a  hasty  but 
mighty  desire  to  linger  in  this  barranca,  smoking 
cigarettes  and  dreaming  the  moments  away  in  the 
cool  of  some  shady  tree. 

All  on  the  moment,  the  youthful  Miguel  Alvarado 
was  off  his  horse  again.  They  were  following  a 
narrow,  barely  discernible  trail  up  the  canyon's  deep 
long  alley;  along  this  trail  he  now  ran,  leading  his 
pony  by  the  bridle  and  looking  ever  to  the  left  side. 
Soon  he  paused  and  looked  back  at  Pascual 
Montara. 

"The  Gitanos  have  pitched  their  tents  just  beyond 
the  first  turn  above,"  he  announced. 

"Hola!  Have  you  seen  more  of  their  sign 
writing  in  grass-ricks  and  sticks  ?  " 

"Si,  Pascual.  Look  well  at  the  forked  rod  set 
upright  in  the  soft  loam  to  the  left  of  the  trail — 


92  THE  WOLF-CUB 

one  prong  is  broken  off,  the  other  points  to  the  right. 
I  knew,  if  it  was  here,  it  would  be  found  to  the 
left  of  the  trail.  It  is  a  signpost  only  set  up  to 
guide  night  travelers.  The  Gitanos  erected  it 
here  no  more  than  an  hour,  or  an  hour  and  a  half 
ago." 

Pascual  grunted  noncommittally.  But  the 
younger  man  seemed  possessed  of  a  strange  and 
febrile  excitement. 

"Let  us  bathe  our  faces  and  heads  in  the  runlet," 
he  suggested  urgently.  "It  would  be  an  error  of 
strategy  if  we  failed  to  look  as  gallant  as  possible 
when  we  ride  into  the  camp  of  the  Zincali.  Besides, 
the  Gypsy  girls  may  not  be  overclean  themselves, 
Pascual,  but  greatly  they  admire  a  Busno — a  White- 
blood — with  a  face  freshly  laved  and  as  handsome 
as  yours  or  mine !  " 

"Za!  The  Gypsy  wenches  are  all  jades  and 
strumpets !  " 

But  he  went,  this  surly  Pascual  Montara,  and 
bathed  his  head  in  the  brook.  Puffing  prodigiously, 
he  mounted  and  rode  on  beside  the  other.  Miguel 
Alvarado  looked  altogether  the  gay  and  haughty 
cavalier  after  his  ablutions.  Pascual  could  not  help 
eyeing  in  admiration  his  camarada's  lean,  clean-cut 
youthful  profile,  his  smooth,  brown,  handsome  face. 
Alvarado's  cheeks  were  tinged  with  red,  his  eyes 
bright  and  sparkling  as  though  with  some  concealed 
but  hopeful  expectancy. 

"You  bristle  with  eagerness,  senor  caballero  of 
my  soul !  "  remarked  Pascual  slyly. 

Miguel  Alvarado  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  did 
not  answer.  Suspicion  growing  in  his  glance,  the 


THE  WOLF-CUB  93 

apelike  one  continued  to  eye  him.  Then,  as  if  he 
were  accusing  his  camarada  of  something  rather  to 
be  ashamed  of,  he  said  pointedly : 

"It  is  because  Gypsies  are  so  near,  that  you  burn 
and  bristle — is  it  not?  You  are  enamored  of  them; 
they  captivate  you  with  their  uncouth  glamors; 
towards  them  you  are  drawn,  eh  ? 

"Ah,  I  understand  now,  Miguel,  that  which  here- 
tofore has  made  you  seem  mysterious  in  my  eyes — 
your  trick  of  reading  cabalistic  signs  written  in 
chalk  on  the  stonework  of  bridges  and  the  adobe  of 
posadas  and  providcncias;  your  trick  of  reading  hil- 
locks of  grass  and  crosses  of  sticks  placed  beside  the 
road;  and  your  trick,  too,  of  ordering  your  pony 
about  in  the  thieves'  Latin  of  the  Gitanos.  You  are 
like  so  many  other  Moors  of  Andalusia,  Miguel 
Alvarado.  You  are  one  of  Los  del  Aficion — Those 
of  the  Predilection !  I  have  guessed  rightly,  have  I 
not?" 

Miguel  Alvarado  shrugged  his  shoulders  once 
again,  and  smiled  his  superior  smile.  Lightly,  he 
remarked,  "The  Gypsy  wenches  are  like  she- 
leopards,  soft  and  caressing  of  movement,  but  free 
and  bold  of  eye.  I  cannot  resist  the  lure  in  their 
golden  glances." 

The  other  snorted  and  spat  disgustedly  down  into 
the  watercourse.  He  drew  a  little  away  from 
Miguel  Alvarado.  After  that,  he  rode  on,  through 
the  gathering  dusk,  very  much  in  the  manner  of  a 
man  companioned  by  one  possessed  of  a  demon — 
full  of  a  certain  respect  but  also  full  of  reserve  and 
caution.  Scarcely  could  you  say  he  became  more 
at  his  ease,  more  the  boon  companero  and  dorado. 


94  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Was  not  the  man  he  rode  with  one  of  Those  of  the 
Predilection? 

In  Spain,  especially  in  Andalusia,  there  has  long 
existed  a  large  class  of  men  given  over  utterly  to  a 
zest  for  Gitanos,  their  ways  of  life,  their  dances  and 
their  songs.  These  admirers  of  the  Gypsies  cannot 
shake  off  the  fascination;  they  follow  after  the 
wandering  Roms  like  the  slaves  of  an  evil  eye ;  they 
cultivate  the  Cales,  the  Black  Men  of  Zend,  wherever 
met;  they  delight  to  watch  the  strange  obscene 
dances  of  the  Gypsy  maids  that  are  like  nothing  so 
much  as  writhings  of  snakes  in  an  ecstasy  of  desire. 
These  men  are  Those  of  the  Predilection. 

In  the  hushed  and  golden  gloaming,  they  came 
at  last,  those  two  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  to  a  turning 
of  the  narrow  canyon  and  then,  beyond,  to  a  Gypsy 
camp  set  in  an  opening  among  the  trees.  The  brown 
tents  were  patched  with  rags  of  a  hundred  hues,  and 
strings  of  rags,  slovenly  washed  and  as  variegated, 
hung  drooping  and  gathering  smoke  between  the 
ridgepoles  and  the  trees. 

There  were  seven  dusty  dun  wagons  in  a  wide 
circle,  and  great  huddles  of  gaunt  and  hungry  dogs 
lazying  about,  and  horses,  foals,  and  burros  coming 
and  going  at  will  among  the  trees.  From  the  limbs 
of  the  trees  dangled  all  manner  of  saddles,  traces, 
and  other  odds  and  ends  of  harness.  There  were 
three  fires  sending  black  smoke  and  dancing  sparks 
up  into  the  lines  of  washing  and  the  overarching 
greenery;  and  there  were  a  dozen  men  and  women, 
and  three  times  that  many  children,  postured  about 
the  fires  and  beneath  the  wagons. 

"Alto  a  la  Guardia  Civil !  "  bellowed  thunderously 


THE  WOLF-CUB  95 

Pascual  Montara,  thinking  to  give  the  Gypsies  a 
start  with  this  dread  call  of  the  police. 

The  men  about  the  fires  did  not  move.  The 
golden-skinned  sloe-eyed  women,  stooped  above  the 
pots  and  kettles,  looked  up  idly.  Only  the  rabble 
of  children  seemed  affrighted;  they  scurried  away, 
those  tousle-headed,  chocolate-brown,  ragged  brats, 
some  of  even  five  and  six  years  old  stark  naked,  and 
hid  themselves  in  the  black  insides  of  the  wagons. 

A  young  man,  his  shirt  open  to  the  waist,  a  yellow 
fa/a  or  scarf  wound  about  his  middle,  was  busily 
engaged  with  winding  a  battered  accordion.  It  was 
outlandishly  sweet  under  his  hands.  Nearby,  a 
Gypsy  woman  of  seventeen  nursed  a  new-born  bant- 
ling, her  breast  uncovered.  A  slim  young  girl 
leaned  against  the  trunk  of  an  algarroba,  pensively 
brushing  the  calf  of  one  nut-brown  leg  with  the 
toes  of  the  other.  A  man,  tall,  massive  and  nobly 
upright  of  port,  got  up  from  beside  one  of  the  fires 
and  advanced  slowly  toward  the  two  policemen  on 
the  edge  of  the  clearing. 

A  red  kerchief  tightly  bound  his  head,  and  he 
wore  the  leather  slop  of  a  blacksmith.  He  had  a 
short,  curly  grizzled  beard.  What  with  his  gigantic 
body,  herculean  shoulders,  monolithic  throat,  and 
haughty,  savagely  beautiful  head,  he  looked  like 
some  Byzantine  emperor  of  the  old  Roman  strain. 
He  was  sixty,  but  he  had  every  appearance  of  being 
under  forty-eight. 

Even  as  the  colossal  one  approached,  Miguel 
Alvarado  caught  sight  of  the  slim  young  nut-brown 
girl  under  the  algarroba  tree.  He  went  deathly 
pale.  He  clutched  at  his  throat,  devouring  her  with 


96  THE  WOLF-CUB 

his  gaze.  His  eyes  were  like  two  hot  pulsing 
embers. 

"Go  forward  to  meet  this  man,  Pascual  Montara," 
at  length  he  stuttered.  "His  name  is  Pepe  Flam- 
menca.  He  is  a  Gypsy  count  and  lords  it  over  the 
clan  encamped  here.  Find  out  what  he  knows  of 
Morales  and  the  others.  Question  him  shrewdly; 
he  may  know  much !  " 

Without  realizing  that  Miguel  Alvarado  was  not 
to  follow,  Pascual  pressed  forward  obediently. 
Meanwhile,  the  other  policeman  turned  his  horse  in 
between  the  trees,  skirted  the  clearing,  and  ap- 
proached the  spot  where  the  Gypsy  girl  stood. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DISMOUNTING,  Miguel  Alvarado  stepped  swiftly 
to  the  girl's  side,  threw  his  arms  about  her  shoulder 
and  waist,  and  drew  her  back  among  the  trees  and 
out  of  sight  of  those  about  the  fires.  She  did  not 
scream;  she  did  not  seem  affrighted  in  the  least. 
Only  when  he  strove  to  kiss  her,  she  put  a  slow  but 
determined  hand  upon  his  forehead  and  pushed 
away  his  impetuous  lips. 

He  forebore  to  combat  her  for  that  which  she 
would  not  give.  Crushing  her  to  him,  he  whispered 
triumphantly,  "Ah,  my  Paquita,  maiden  of  my  soul ! 
Did  I  not  say  rightly,  when  I  said  we  should  meet 
again?  " 

Evidently  she  had  not  been  quite  certain  whom 
he  was  until  he  spoke.  For  now,  she  writhed  free 
from  his  arms,  her  face  contorted  with  loathing  and 
wrath. 

"So  you  come  sweethearting  again,  you  vile  louse 
of  a  Busno!  Si,  seguramente,  si — we  meet  again! 
But  I  met  with  hunger  when  I  was  a  child,  and  I  met 
hunger  often  since,  and  I  like  hunger  the  less  at 
each  of  our  meetings.  The  same  with  the  cholera! 
The  same  with  you !  " 

A  cold  and  haughty  tower  of  ivory,  she  faced  him. 
Her  face  was  superbly  royal  with  high  disdain. 

"Go  away  at  once  or  I  will  set  our  scavenger  curs 
on  you !  Have  I  not  warned  you  before  this  never 
to  approach  me  with  your  treacle  words  of  love, 


98  THE  WOLF-CUB 

your  kissing  lips  that  turn  my  blood  to  vinegar,  your 
caressing  arms  that  make  my  skin  shudder  and 
creep?  Go  away,  you  itch,  you  ringworm!  You 
are  not  a  man;  there  is  nothing  masculine,  varonil, 
strong  and  savage  about  you.  All  you  can  do  is  to 
moon  and  coo  and  sigh;  you  are  a  sot  ever  thirsty 
for  love;  you  are  a  soft,  shapeless  blubber  of  pas- 
sion !  And  how  can  you  come  near  me  when  you 
know  you  are  one  of  the  order  of  men  who  mur- 
dered my  brother  for  poisoning  a  few  poor  pigs 
and  for  stealing  a  few  poor  horses? — you,  a  man  of 
the  Guardia  Civil,  the  enemy  of  my  clan  and  race 
since  time  out  of  mind ;  our  blight,  our  scourge !  " 

Beneath  the  bite  and  lash  of  her  words,  beneath 
the  scorching  fire  of  her  scorn-filled  eyes,  a  lesser 
man  than  Miguel  Alvarado  would  have  shriveled 
into  a  smoking  black  cinder.  But  never  he.  Folding 
his  arms  across  his  chest,  he  waited  in  a  dramatic 
silence  while  the  wrack  and  tempest  swept  over 
him.  Then,  slowly,  theatrically,  he  raised  his  arms 
above  his  head,  and  uplifted  his  eyes,  and  addressed 
himself  to  the  serene  heavens — under  the  circum- 
stances, the  obvious  and  altogether  Spanish  thing 
to  do. 

"Senor  Don  Dios ! "  he  apostrophized  solemnly. 
"My  soul  leaps  like  a  flame  with  love  for  her — I  love 
her  unto  death.  And  she  repulses  me !  What  shall 
I  do?" 

Go  away  and  leave  her  victorious  in  her  disdain? 
Not  Miguel  Alvarado ! 

When  Pascual  Montara  finished  questioning  the 
Gypsy  chieftain  and  hetman,  and  came  seeking  his 
companero  through  the  trees,  he  found  them 


THE  WOLF-CUB  99 

together  still — the  hot-blooded  young  policeman  and 
the  lithe  Paquita  of  the  nut-brown  legs.  Miguel 
Alvarado  had  progressed  some  way  with  his  bitterly 
contested  love-making.  But  she  still  shrugged 
away  from  him  when  impetuously  he  approached  too 
close. 

Having  left  his  horse  in  a  distant  quarter  of  the 
clearing,  on  foot  through  the  gloaming  came  Pascual 
Montara;  and,  glimpsing  the  girl  in  the  shadow  of 
the  trees,  he  halted  dead  and  eyed  her  with  wonder 
and  admiration.  She  wore  a  printed  calico  dress  of 
deep  vermilions  and  flaming  saffrons,  and  a  grass- 
green  scarf  was  wound,  in  the  Gypsy  fashion,  among 
her  ink-black  tresses.  There  was  a  string  of  copper 
coins  upon  her  bosom  and  a  bangle  of  copper  coins 
upon  one  wrist.  Her  dress  came  but  little  more  than 
half-way  down  her  bare,  symmetrical  and  richly 
polished  legs,  and  it  was  open  at  the  throat  to 
show  glimpses  of  her  small  brown  breasts  and  of  the 
swale  between. 

Letting  Miguel  Alvarado  talk  as  he  willed,  she 
stood  watching  him  out  of  slow  gloomy  eyes.  His 
elocution  was  fluent,  full  of  zest,  soul-moving;  his 
words  were  gorgeous,  magnificent,  glowing  with 
color  and  music.  One  moment  he  called  her  a 
baggage,  a  jade,  a  wanton,  a  thing  of  ugliness,  a 
soiled  and  tawdry  wench.  The  next,  he  called  her  a 
virgin  most  pure,  most  chaste,  most  admirable,  and 
endowed  her  with  every  beauty  and  charm  ever 
conceded  by  a  lover's  tongue,  appraising  separately 
and  in  sequence  her  features,  her  contours,  her 
color,  the  texture  of  her  skin,  the  fineness  of  her 
hair.  With  bold,  splendid  splashes  of  color  and 


ioo  THE  WOLF-CUB 

enunciation,  he  lifted  her  up,  up  from  the  degrada- 
tion and  the  mire  to  which  he  so  lately  had  debased 
her,  and  put  her  upon  the  apex  of  the  world,  erect- 
ing her  upon  a  pedestal  above  all  other  women,  his 
words  a  coronation,  a  canonization,  and  an  apothe- 
osis. When  he  had  done,  she  raised  a  little  brown 
hand  to  her  mouth,  and  yawned  prodigiously. 
Then  she  turned  away. 

Pascual  Montara  came  forward,  loudly  rattling 
the  fallen  leaves  with  his  feet  to  apprise  Alvarado  of 
his  nearness. 

"Let  us  be  on  our  way,"  he  said.  "I  have  ques- 
tioned this  Pepe  Flammenca  and  others  of  the  Gypsy 
bucks,  questioned  them  as  though  I  were  Fray 
Tomas  de  Torquemada  himself!  They  know  less 
of  the  men  we  seek  than  do  sucking  infants  of  sin. 
Come,  Miguel  Alvarado!  It  grows  dark,  and  you 
will  forget  your  duty  to  the  Guardia  Civil  if  you 
linger  long  here !  " 

Young  Alvarado  flashed  an  angry  look  at  him. 
Then,  suddenly  getting  in  hand,  he  shrugged  himself 
calm  and  said : 

"Morales  and  the  rest  have  not  been  here,  eh? 
Well,  let  us  clear  our  heels  of  the  filth  of  this  vile- 
smelling  place  before  dark,  then." 

Without  another  word,  he  turned  his  back  upon 
the  girl  and  went  seeking  his  pony  among  the  trees. 
A  sibilant,  softly  called  Gypsy  word,  repeated  twice, 
and  the  horse  came  clattering  through  the  under- 
wood toward  him  like  a  well-trained  dog. 

He  mounted.  Pascual  Montara  had  gone  strid- 
ing across  the  clearing  to  retrieve  his  own  animal. 
The  girl  lingered  under  the  trees,  standing  as  he  had 


THE  WOLF-CUB  101 

found  her,  her  back  against  the  trunk  of  an  algar- 
roba,  the  toes  of  one  nut-brown  leg  scratching  the 
calf  of  the  other,  her  eyes  pensive. 

"My  Paquita,"  said  Miguel  Alvarado,  sidling 
near  her  on  his  horse,  "there  is  an  ancient  and  mas- 
sive wild  olive  far  down  at  the  gateway  to  this 
barranca.  And  it  looks  like  a  tall  and  handsome 
cavalier  waiting  for  the  moon  to  rise  that  he  may 
have  a  meeting  with  some  Gypsy  girl  who  is  his 
beloved." 

She  looked  slowly  up  at  him,  then  away. 

"My  Paquita,"  he  persisted,  "you  have  seen  this 
wild  olive,  have  you  not?  " 

She  did  not  answer  him. 

"My  Paquita,"  he  said  again,  "you  are  a  Gitana. 
Tell  me ;  you  are  wise  in  reading  nature ;  will  there 
be  a  moon  clear  of  clouds  to-morrow  night?" 

She  slipped  away  from  the  trunk  of  the  algarroba 
and  started  off  toward  the  clearing.  Suddenly,  she 
paused  and  looked  back  over  one  shoulder.  She 
answered  his  questions  in  the  order  asked. 

"The  wild  olive  is  well-known  to  me,  and  there 
will  be  a  fine  moon  to-morrow  night.  But  there 
will  be  no  meetings  at  the  wild  olive  between  you 
and  me.  I  have  no  appetite  for  your  caresses  and 
kisses;  I  would  hate  you,  did  I  not  think  too  little 
of  you.  You  are  only  a  cinder  in  my  eye!  I  have 
kept  myself  a  virgin  all  these  years  for  some  man 
more  bold  and  brutal  and  magnificent  than  you !  " 

Pascual  Montara  had  mounted  his  horse  and  was 
waiting  in  growing  impatience. 

"Hola,  mi  companero !  "  he  called.  "What  is 
keeping  you?  " 


102  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Trotting  his  horse  out  into  the  open  space  where 
were  the  three  fires  of  black  smoke  and  dancing 
embers,  Alvarado  joined  him.  Together  the  two 
policemen  rode  away  up  the  shadow-haunted  alleys 
of  the  steep  and  narrow  barranca. 

With  a  great  gusto,  the  Gypsy  bucks  assaulted 
their  evening  meal.  They  had  no  need  of  plates  nor 
forks.  Three  wolfish  circles  of  men  swiftly  formed 
about  the  three  steaming  pots,  which  had  been  takea 
off  the  fires  and  left  standing  upon  the  grass.  The 
pots  contained  the  ubiquitous  national  dish  of  Spain, 
the  puchero,  that  most  savory  of  stews.  Into  the 
pots  the  Gypsies  dipped  with  their  navajas — those 
long,  wicked-looking  clasp-knives — and  with  their 
fingers. 

It  was  like  a  grab-bag.  In  that  puchero  one  could 
not  know  what  variety  of  meat  or  vegetable  one 
might  pluck  forth.  The  Gitanos  went  at  the  busi- 
ness of  eating  with  a  singular  moroseness ;  they  were 
like  glum  and  voracious  animals.  When  any  se- 
cured a  chunk  of  meat  too  large  to  be  swallowed  in 
one  desperate  mouthful,  it  was  torn  into  more  rea- 
sonable pieces  by  hands  and  teeth,  or  sawed  into 
lengths  by  the  ever  ready  navajas. 

The  women  and  children  waited  wistfully  apart. 
It  was  not  for  them  to  sit  and  eat  until  the  last  of 
the  males  had  done.  They  were  the  weaker,  and 
they  must  take  thankfully  that  which  was  left  them 
by  the  strong. 

One  by  one,  the  bucks  got  up  from  about  the 
pots  of  puchero,  licking  their  lips  and  reaching  for 
papers  and  tobacco.  The  three  fires  had  decayed 
and  become  mere  hillocks  of  embers.  The  men 


THE  WOLF-CUB  103 

formed  new  and  more  indolent  circles  about  these, 
smoking  lazily,  their  eyes  dull  and  complacent  with 
eating.  Chattering  like  famished  sparrows,  their 
voices  sharp  with  eagerness,  the  women  and  children 
fell  hastily  upon  the  remnants  their  men  had  left. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  a  party  of  cabalga- 
dores,  riding  hard,  passed  the  massive  wild  olive 
that  stood  at  the  dingle's  gateway  like  a  sereno, 
like  a  metropolitan  night  policeman  at  the  corner  of 
a  dark  and  narrow  street.  Keeping  steadily  on, 
they  rode  through  the  obscurity  of  the  corridorlike 
reaches  of  the  barranca,  and  swiftly  drew  near  the 
opening  among  the  trees  and  the  camp  of  the 
Gypsies. 

Soon  they  glimpsed  the  red  of  firelight  through 
the  underwood,  and  caught  snatches  of  the  shrill 
chattering  of  the  women  and  children.  There  was 
an  undertone  of  music  from  the  camp,  the  soft  reed- 
like  notes  of  an  accordion,  and  suddenly  a  man's 
voice  began  chanting  "The  Song  of  Juanito  Ralli  " : 

"The  false  Juanito,  day  and  night, 

Had  best  with  caution  go, 
The  Gypsy  Cales  of  Yeira  height 
Have  sworn  to  lay  him  low. 

"Throughout  the  night,   the  dusky  night, 

I  prowl  in  silence  round, 
And  with  my  eyes  look  left  and  right, 

For  him,  the  Spanish  hound, 
That  with  my  knife  I  him  may  smite, 

And  to  the  vitals  wound. 

"I'll  wash  not  in  the  limpid  flood 
The  shirt  which  binds  my  frame; 


104  THE  WOLF-CUB 

But  in  Juanito  Ralli's  blood 
I'll  bravely  wash  the  same." 

The  strangers  halted  in  the  concealing  underwood, 
drawing  close  together.  Words  passed  in  whispers ; 
then  the  group  of  five  separated.  Three  of  the 
party  moved  slowly  and  quietly  away  through  the 
trees;  the  other  two  waited,  motionless  as  rock. 

At  length,  the  feat  in  strategy  was  successfully 
accomplished.  In  each  of  four  sectors  of  the  pal- 
isading circle  of  foliage  and  shadows  which  sur- 
rounded the  opening  among  the  trees,  there  waited 
a  man,  silent  and  watchful,  a  carbine  ready  in  his 
two  hands.  No  one  of  the  four  dismounted,  but 
suddenly  one  rode  briskly  out  into  the  clearing. 

"Who  is  this?"  cried  Pepe  Flammenca,  starting 
up.  "Not  another  policeman !  " 

"No,  lo  quiera  Dios !  "  quietly  returned  the  horse- 
man. "God  forbid,  no !  " 

He  halted  his  horse  halfway  to  the  groups  about 
the  fires.  The  Gypsy  fellow  with  the  open  shirt  and 
yellow  sash  had  abruptly  quit  singing  and  playing 
the  accordion.  The  very  children  were  frightened 
into  large-eyed  silence. 

"Ah,  you  are  one  of  the  Errate,  one  of  the 
Blood!"  exclaimed  Flammenca.  "It  is  a  Zincalo 
that  speaks,  a  Romano,  a  Cale.  Is  it  not,  hom- 
bref" 

"God  forbid  that  too !  "  the  horseman  laughed 
shortly.  "Approach,  Pepe  Flammenca,  and  see  for 
yourself  whom  I  am." 

There  was  in  his  voice  a  certain  imperious  note. 
The  gigantic  Gypsy  count  moved  slowly  forward. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  105 

He  peered  at  the  brown  youthful  face  beneath  the 
broad-brimmed  felt. 

"Jacinto  Quesada !  "  he  whispered  sharply,  falling 
back  a  step.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  his 
Roms  scattered  upon  the  grass.  They  had  heard 
his  sharply  sibilated  whisper;  and  an  echo  of  that 
whisper  had  passed  over  them  as  each  repeated  the 
name  and  sat  up,  dramatically  moved. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"WHAT  do  you  do  here,  Quesada? "  asked  Pepe 
Flammenca. 

Quesada  ignored  the  question. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "how  long  have  you  been  en- 
camped in  this  spot?  " 

"Four  of  our  wagons  have  been  here  a  fortnight. 
But  three  that  had  been  delayed  on  the  way  joined 
us  in  this  spot  only  this  afternoon.  I  and  my  daugh- 
ter, Paquita,  came  with  the  vanguard." 

"There  is  a  singular  troop  of  cabalgadores  some- 
where upon  the  plains,"  remarked  Quesada,  studi- 
ously regarding  him.  "They  are  nine — all  stran- 
gers to  the  countryside.  They  are  led  by  a  man 
known  from  end  to  end  of  Spain,  the  redoubtable 
espada,  Manuel  Morales.  Two  among  them  are 
outlanders;  the  one  a  Frenchman,  the  other  an 
American. 

"I  seek  news  of  them,  Count.  Perchance  you 
may  have  encountered  them  in  traversing  the  high 
parameras  of  La  Mancha?  Perchance  you  may 
have  entertained  them  with  a  puchero  in  your  en- 
campment here?  " 

"Neither  have  I  bespoke  them  nor  have  I  had 
sight  of  them,"  returned  Pepe  Flammenca  with 
great  certitude. 

"No?  But  of  course  not!  It  is  only  four 
days  ago  that  they  first  enterprised  abroad. 
However,  the  wagons  of  your  caravan  that  just 


THE  WOLF-CUB  107 

came  up  to-day  will  surely  have  some  word  of  them. 
These  cabalgadores  of  Manuel  Morales  are  an  un- 
common looking  lot;  some  of  them  are  outfitted  in 
the  full  ring  regalia  of  bullfighters ;  and  the  bright 
reds,  greens  and  yellows  of  their  costumes  have 
caused  the  vaqueros  and  herders,  who  chanced  across 
their  path,  to  become  puzzled  and  amazed  and  ex- 
travagantly talkative.  Then,  too,  they  bristle  with 
Mausers  and  Mannlichers,  and  are  heavily  weighted 
with  bandoleers  in  which  cartridges  are  as  thick  as 
teeth  in  a  man's  mouth. 

"Small  wonder,  Pepe  Flammenca,  that  tongues 
have  wagged  and  legends  been  fabricated — Morales 
and  his  men  are  nine  of  the  most  outlandish  cabal- 
gadores ever  seen  in  these  parts;  they  are  nine 
Quixotes,  as  fantastic  looking  and  out  of  place  upon 
La  Mancha  as  was  the  Ingenious  Gentleman  him- 
self!  Myself,  I  had  word  of  them  borne  me  across 
the  wastes  by  a  dozen  different  arrieros,  and  by  the 
hard-riding  horseboys  of  certain  innkeepers  of  my 
acquaintance. 

"It  is  strange,  but  I,  and  I  alone,  know  on  what 
business  they  ride.  But  then,  I  am  the  man  they 
seek — I,  Jacinto  Quesada !  But,  Count,  you  are  not 
making  any  inquiries  among  the  men  of  the  three 
wagons  that  joined  you  to-day.  Do  so  at  once !  " 

"There  is  no  need,  Don  Jacinto.  Already  I  have 
asked  questions  of  them." 

"But,  man,  you  have  not  budged  a  foot !  Carajo ! 
do  you  think  to  trifle  with  Jacinto  Quesada?" 

"God  forbid,  no!"  returned  the  gigantic  Gypsy 
hastily.  "But  I  speak  the  truth,  Senor  Quesada — 
already  have  I  made  inquiries  among  my  men  for 


io8  THE  WOLF-CUB 

news  of  this  Morales  and  his  cabalgadores.  Don 
Jacinto,  it  may  surprise  you,  but  others  have  been 
here  no  more  than  an  hour  ago  seeking  news  of  this 
selfsame  Morales  and  his  fantastic  troop.  They 
were  two  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  and — " 

"Hola!  Two  Guardias  Civiles?  And  no  more 
than  an  hour  ago?  When  they  left  you,  which  way 
did  they  ride?  " 

"Right  on  up  the  barranca — towards  the  moun- 
tains— and  they  did  not  stop  for  food." 

Jacinto  Quesada,  keeping  the  Gypsy  chieftain 
transfixed  with  his  eye,  raised  his  voice  so  that  it 
carried  all  through  the  clearing  and  even  out  to  the 
shadows  beyond : 

"Carajo!  they  were  here,  eh?  Two  Guardias 
Civiles — and  they  went  right  on  up  the  barranca ! '' 

At  once  and  silently,  two  of  the  cabalgadores 
waiting  in  the  shadows  moved  off  up  the  dark  defile. 
It  was  as  though  they  were  play-actors  hidden  in 
the  wings  of  a  stage,  and  the  loudly  shouted  words 
of  Jacinto  Quesada  were  to  them  an  awaited  signal, 
a  cue  to  be  immediately  obeyed. 

"What  do  you  desire  of  us,  Don  Jacinto  ?  "  asked 
Flammenca  of  Quesada,  without  seeming  to  notice 
his  change  of  voice. 

"Food." 

"Sit  down  and  eat.     You  are  most  welcome." 

"Do  you  think  Jacinto  Quesada  will  be  satisfied 
with  your  leavings  and  the  leavings  of  your  brats 
and  wenches?  Besides,  there  is  not  enough  stew 
left  to  satisfy  my  stomach.  I  have  the  appetite  of 
three  men." 

He  looked  at  Flammenca  a  long  moment,  then 


THE  WOLF-CUB  109 

added,  "And  again,  I  have  a  following  of  four 
cabalgadores  who  will  be  here  shortly.  Their  stom- 
achs must  be  well  garnished.  They  have  ridden 
hard  and  steadily  these  last  four  days." 

"Any  you  bring  with  you  are  most  welcome  here, 
Senor  Quesada,  my  friend.  Are  not  the  Gypsies 
forever  the  friends  of  outlaws  ?  " 

"One  of  those  who  will  come  will  be  a  lady,  a 
gentle  highborn  lady — " 

"Tell  her  to  come  forward  out  of  the  shadows, 
man!  Why  keep  her  waiting  outside  the  clearing 
because  of  your  foolish  distrust  of  us?  We  Gypsies 
mean  no  treachery  by  you  or  yours,  ley  tiro  solloho- 
lomus  opre  lesti — you  may  take  your  oath  on  that !  " 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  long 
minute.  Then  Jacinto  Quesada,  in  perfectly  good 
grace,  turned  his  head  and  called,  "Forward,  my 
Felicidad!" 

She  came  forth,  the  golden-haired  girl,  riding  a 
tobacco  colored  mare  of  the  small  but  hardy 
Manchegan  breed.  She  looked  very  proud  and 
highborn  and  lonely,  as  she  walked  her  horse  slowly 
toward  them. 

"You  are  safe  from  all  harm  here,  madama,"  said 
Flammenca,  bowing  low.  "Rest  yourself  and  soon 
you  will  eat.  My  own  daughter,  Paquita,  will  serve 
you.  We  are  your  good  friends  even  as  we  are  the 
good  friends  of  Jacinto  Quesada." 

Very  courteously,  he  helped  her  dismount. 

Just  then  sounded,  very  suddenly,  the  hoot  of  the 
eagle  owl.  It  came  from  up  the  barranca.  As'  it 
vibrated  sharply  between  the  steep  high  walls  of  the 
canyon,  Flammenca  turned  and  looked  at  the  young 


no  THE  WOLF-CUB 

bandolero,  cocking  his  ears  the  while.  Quesada,  in 
the  act  of  dismounting,  paused  also  and  listened. 
The  sound  came  again,  a  singular  bird  note,  not 
much  the  ordinary  hoot  of  an  owl,  but  more  a  growl 
and  something  of  a  gruff  scream. 

Pepe  Flammenca  strode  quickly  to  Quesada' s 
side. 

"The  men  you  sent  up  the  canyon  after  the 
Guardias  Civiles  have  returned,  I  see,"  he  said. 
"Call  them  in!  You  are  overwary  of  me  and  my 
people,  Don  Jacinto.  Such  caution  is  commendable 
in  most  circumstances,  but  not  when  you  deal  with 
the  Zincali.  Trust  us,  Quesada ;  we  will  not  betray 
you !  Have  we  not  for  hundreds  of  years  been  out- 
laws hunted  like  wolves  ?  Do  you  think  the  men  of 
the  Guardia  Civil  look  upon  us  as  their  allies  ?  We 
of  the  Zincali  are  thieves,  and  we  honor  you  for 
being  a  greater  thief  than  we.  No  reward  the  po- 
lice of  Spain  can  offer  would  make  us  prove  false 
to  you  and  yours !  " 

A  long  silence  followed.  Again  Jacinto  Quesada 
looked  steadily  into  Flammenca' s  eyes  and  strove  to 
read  the  soul  of  the  man. 

"Very  well !  "  he  said  at  length.  He  raised  his 
carbine  aloft  and  fired  it  into  the  air. 

Briskly  his  three  dorados,  Rafael  Perez,  Ignacio 
Garcia,  and  Pio  Estrada,  rode  into  the  clearing.  It 
was  noticeable  then,  in  the  light  from  the  replenished 
fires,  that  no  one  of  them  was  laden  with  the  plun- 
der from  the  hold-up  of  the  Seville-to-Madrid.  The 
chances  were  that  they  had  left  the  telltale  sacks  of 
mail  and  conglomerate  loot  in  the  posada  of  some 
protecting  cacique,  or  buried  them  between  the  con- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  in 

crete  feet  of  some  windmill,  or  cached  them  be- 
tween the  boulders  in  some  gully  in  the  foothills. 

The  three  dismounted.  With  gratification  they 
shook  out  their  saddle-cramped  limbs.  Jacinto 
Quesada  led  his  own  horse  and  that  of  Felicidad 
over  to  one  of  the  wagons  and  picketed  them  to  a 
wheel.  As  he  did,  a  nut-brown  chit  of  a  girl  came 
and  stood  before  him. 

"You  are  that  arrogant  and  absolute  one,  Jacinto 
Quesada !  "  she  asked  with  rising  inflection. 

Jacinto  Quesada  nodded  without  speaking.  The 
Gypsy  girl  looked  at  him  in  a  way  that  gave  him  a 
singular  feeling.  Boldly  she  measured  him  with 
her  eyes,  appraised  him.  Her  glance  was  at  once 
inquisitive,  prying,  annoying,  and  yet  ardent  and 
approving.  She  had,  too,  the  strange  slow  stare 
peculiar  to  persons  of  the  Gypsy  race,  that  fixed  un- 
couth look  that  makes  one  feel  much  as  if  one  were 
being  hypnotized  by  a  serpent. 

"You  are  very  young  to  be  a  bandolero,"  she  re- 
marked, half  to  herself. 

Once  again  Quesada  nodded  without  speaking. 

"You  are  altogether  unlike  the  bandoleros  I  have 
seen." 

"It  is  the  deed,  senorita,"  said  Quesada.  "The 
deed  makes  us  bandoleros — not  the  length  of  our 
limbs  nor  the  cast  of  our  faces." 

"But  you  are  very  handsome ! "  she  said. 
"You  are  as  handsome  as  the  very  Hyperion  him- 
self!" 

Surprised  at  the  ardor  with  which  she  said  these 
words,  Quesada  looked  at  her  with  a  more  curious 
interest.  Small  but  oddly  statuesque,  a  superbly 


ii2  THE  WOLF-CUB 

shaped  figurine  in  her  close-clinging  calico  dress  of 
glowing  vermilions  and  blazing  saffrons,  she  stood 
with  head  ecstatically  upraised  toward  him,  her 
dusky  eyes  radiant  with  admiration.  She  thrilled  a 
little  toward  him,  her  olive  bosom  undulating  deeply 
and  slowly. 

"Who  are  you,  child?"  he  asked. 

"Paquita.  I  am  the  daughter  of  Pepe  Flam- 
menca." 

Without  comment,  he  made  to  return  to  the  group 
about  the  fires.  But  she  stayed  him  with  a  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"Tell  me,"  she  asked,  panting  with  eagerness; 
"have  you  murdered  many  men  on  the  mountains 
and  on  the  plains?" 

"Carajo,  no !  No  man  have  I  killed  as  yet,  though 
I  have  battled  with  many,"  returned  Quesada, 
wounded  in  his  manhood.  "I  am  but  a  simple 
Moor,  not  a  ferocious  beast  that  lusts  to  slay." 

"But  you  are  magnificent  with  pride  and  cour- 
age!" 

"I  love  the  fierce  ecstasy  of  the  running  fight, 
the  hand-to-hand  skirmish!  But  there  is  little  cold 
murder,  know  you,  in  my  bowels.  Now,  leave  me, 
ninita! " 

Impatiently,  he  thrust  her  hand  from  his  arm  and 
started  away.  But  she  put  herself  before  him,  and 
once  again  uplifted  her  face  and  bathed  him  in  the 
gaze  of  her  ardent  eyes.  And  she  cried,  her  voice 
tremulous  with  a  kind  of  passion : 

"Don  Jacinto,  I  have  never  before  met  any  one 
like  you !  You  are  bold  and  imperious,  you  are  sav- 
age and  mighty,  but  you  are  not  weakly  cruel !  And 


THE  WOLF-CUB  113 

ah,  you  are  handsome — handsome  as  the  very  Hy- 
perion himself !  " 

She  suddenly  burst  into  tears  and  fled  away. 
Quesada  looked  after  her,  perturbed,  amazed,  and 
sorely  puzzled.  Her  conduct  was  altogether  inex- 
plicable. But  the  underwood  hid  her  from  further 
sight.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  one  who 
should  say,  "She  is  only  a  Gypsy,  poor  thing!  "  and 
returned  to  the  fires.  His  meal  awaited  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AFTER  they  had  garnished  their  stomachs  with  the 
puchero,  they  sat  brooding  around  the  three  fires,  the 
girl,  Felicidad,  and  Jacinto  and  his  three  ruffians. 
The  Gypsy  lad  with  the  shirt  open  to  the  waist  and 
the  yellow  sash  brought  out  his  battered  accordion 
again  and  played  upon  it  for  their  entertainment. 

He  made  it  scream  and  exult  obscenely ;  he  made 
it  lament  like  a  fallen  angel.  He  made  it  sing  wild 
and  wanton  songs  of  Gypsy  love ;  he  made  it  chant 
of  Gypsy  treachery  and  Gypsy  chiromancy.  When 
you  heard  its  uncouth  and  haunting  assonances,  you 
believed  in  the  Evil  Eye,  the  Qncrelar  nasula;  in  the 
Hokkano  Baro,  the  Great  Trick;  and  even  in  the 
Chiving  Drao,  that  sorcery  by  which  the  Gitanos 
cause  horses  to  become  sick  and  glandered,  and 
swine  to  die  as  suddenly  as  if  poisoned.  In  short, 
you  believed  all  you  ever  had  heard  of  the  strange 
doings  of  the  Zincali! 

The  hours  fled  by.  Those  about  the  fires  grew 
sleepy.  One  by  one,  the  Gypsy  wenches  withdrew 
into  their  tents.  Then  the  girl  Paquita  spoke  to 
Felicidad  and  led  her  away.  They  lay  down  to  sleep 
that  night — the  highborn  young  lady  and  the  girl 
of  common  Gypsy  clay — in  a  certain  wagon  of  the 
Gitanos.  To  that  wagon  came  Jacinto  Quesada  and 
his  three  dorados,  a  short  time  later,  and  upon  the 
open  sward  before  it,  threw  themselves,  their 


THE  WOLF-CUB  115 

ponchos  wrapped  around  them  to  protect  them  from 
the  night  cold  and  dew. 

After  breakfast  next  morning,  Quesada  talked 
long  and  earnestly  with  Pepe  Flammenca. 

"You  had  best  remain  in  camp,  at  least  this  morn- 
ing," advised  the  Gypsy  count.  "Up  above,  there  is 
going  to  be  a  great  monteria,  and  there  will  be  many 
men  upon  the  mountains.  Some  one  may  see  the 
Senor  Don  Jacinto  and  report  it  to  the  police." 

"It  is  good,  friend  Pepe.  And  the  other  mat- 
ter?" 

Flammenca  called  aloud  in  the  Gypsy  gerigonza. 
Instantly  followed  a  scene  of  extraordinary  liveli- 
ness and  interest.  Flammenca,  Quesada,  Perez, 
Ignacio  Garcia,  and  Estrada  sat  cross-legged  on  the 
grass.  Flammenca's  Gypsy  lads  led  before  them, 
first  the  horses  of  Quesada  and  his  dorados,  and 
then  the  three-  and  four-year-olds  attached  to  the 
Gypsy  caravan.  There  was  a  great  chaffering;  the 
various  points  of  the  horses  were  appraised  enthusi- 
astically and  with  minute  care.  It  was  an  im- 
promptu horse  fair.  Wherever  found,  whether  in 
Spain,  England,  Russia,  Hungary,  or  the  United 
States,  the  true  Gypsy  is  an  expert  chalan  or  horse 
trader. 

When  all  the  bargaining  was  over,  Quesada  and 
his  dorados  discovered  they  had  not  got  off  second 
best.  They  had  acquired  five  new  horses,  un- 
fatigued  and  glossy  coated  after  a  fortnight  in  the 
barranca.  Their  own  jaded  animals  had  come  into 
the  possession  of  Flammenca  and  his  bucks. 

"It  would  please  the  young  lady  who  rides  with 
us,"  said  Quesada  to  the  Gypsy  chieftain,  "if  she 


ii6  THE  WOLF-CUB 

could  change  her  attire  for  something  more  suited 
to  the  saddle." 

"My  Paquita  will  attend  to  the  matter,"  returned 
Flammenca.  "Let  them  go  together  into  one  of  the 
tents  and  find  out  whether  their  clothing  be  fit  to 
barter  and  whether  their  two  pretty  shapes  are 
mates." 

The  girl,  Paquita,  had  been  hovering  about 
Jacinto  Quesada  all  the  morning.  At  breakfast,  she 
had  anticipated  his  every  desire,  waiting  on  him 
with  silent  devotion.  Continually  she  kept  her  great 
dusky  eyes  upon  him,  following  him  everywhere  he 
went  with  a  gaze  abject  and  doglike  in  its  utter- 
ness  of  adoration. 

Now,  Quesada  drew  forth  a  packet  of  tissue 
papers  and  a  pouch  of  tobacco,  of  a  sudden  and 
altogether  unexpectedly,  she  stooped  above  him  and 
seized  the  papers  and  tobacco  from  his  hands. 
Looking  fixedly  into  his  astonished  eyes,  she  rolled 
a  cigarette,  wetting  the  edges  with  her  lips.  Then 
she  handed  the  papelito  to  him,  made  a  long  obei- 
sance, and  turned  away. 

Her  father  chuckled  and  gave  her  the  word  to 
take  Felicidad  apart  and  find  her  fit  riding  clothes. 
She  withdrew,  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  Quesada 
with  passionate  Gypsy  eyes. 

Sometime  later,  she  and  Felicidad  came  out  of 
the  tent  into  which  they  had  vanished,  and  Felicidad 
wore  a  brown  jacket  and  a  brown  bisected  riding 
skirt,  both  rather  the  worse  for  wear,  and  Paquita 
was  completely  attired  in  Felicidad's  green  travel- 
ing dress.  The  Gypsy  girl  looked  very  charming  in 
the  more  conventional  attire,  what  of  her  nut-brown 


THE  WOLF-CUB  117 

skin  and  dye-black  hair  against  the  contrasting 
green. 

She  walked  about  the  clearing  with  the  grace  of  a 
she-leopard,  continually  smoothing  the  tight,  reveal- 
ing skirt  over  her  hips,  and  rearranging  and  patting 
her  hair  which  she  had  put  up  in  imitation  of 
Felicidad.  Preening  herself  thus,  she  smiled  often 
in  a  frank  and  childlike  pleasure  in  herself.  But 
there  were  no  men  about  to  admire  her. 

Quesada's  dorados  had  gone  behind  the  wagons 
to  currycomb  and  further  polish  their  new  horses. 
The  Roms,  every  last  dishevel-headed  and  swarthy- 
faced  lad,  had  left  the  camp  immediately  after  the 
conclusion  of  the  horse  trading.  Led  by  Pepe 
Flammenca,  they  had  stalked  silently  up  the  bar- 
ranca, their  Mausers  and  Mannlichers  couched  ten- 
derly in  their  arms. 

They  were  bound  for  the  heights  above  the 
barranca.  There,  in  the  tag-end  mountains  of  the 
Sierra  Morena,  a  great  monteria,  or  mountain  drive, 
was  under  way  that  day.  Senor  D.  Pablo  Lario  de 
Quinones  was  the  host.  He  was  a  rich  Catalan 
who  had  made  his  millions  in  the  cork  industry. 
He  had  purchased  two  or  three  of  the  mountains 
for  a  sporting  estate,  and  in  one  of  the  higher 
passes  he  had  erected  a  shooting  box.  It  was  the 
only  habitation  within  miles,  for  he  had  ousted  the 
few  native  mountaineers  from  their  landholds. 

Among  his  guests  for  this  particular  monteria 
were  many  Spanish  notables,  high  and  mighty  ones 
of  Letters,  the  State,  and  the  Church,  as  well  as 
several  foreign  ambassadors  and  their  attaches. 
The  Duke  of  Fernan  Nunez,  the  Duke  of  Medin- 


u8  THE  WOLF-CUB 

aceli,  the  Marquis  of  Viana,  the  Conde  de  Agrela, 
the  Marquesa  de  Manzanedo,  Colonel  Barrera  and 
Senor  D.  I.  L.  de  Ybarra  were  among  the  crack 
guns  invited. 

Lario  de  Quinones  had  his  own  pack  of  podencos, 
or  hunting  dogs — a  recoba  of  about  forty  dogs. 
But,  as  is  the  custom  of  the  sporting  gentry  of 
Spain,  certain  of  his  guests — the  Duke  of  Fernan 
Nunez,  the  Conde  de  Agrela,  and  Colonel  Barrera 
— had  brought  with  them  their  own  packs  of 
podencos  and  their  own  huntsmen,  to  reinforce  De 
Quinones'  pack  and  make  the  drive  a  more  stupen- 
dous affair. 

Now,  Pepe  Flammenca  and  his  Gypsy  lads  were 
arrant  trespassers  on  the  hunting  grounds  of  the 
grandees.  Should  the  mountaineers  who  served  as 
beaters  and  extra  huntsmen  come  upon  them  in 
the  brushwood,  they  would  thrash  them  unmerci- 
fully and  drive  them  out  of  the  mountains  at  the 
points  of  their  guns.  But  Pepe  Flammenca  and  his 
bucks  were  hardened  and  desperate  poachers.  It 
was  their  plan  to  skulk  along  the  line  of  the  drive 
and  to  hide  themselves  in  thickets  near  the  armada 
or  firing  line  of  gentlemen  sportsmen;  and  should 
a  wounded  stag  come  bounding  toward  their  places 
of  concealment,  it  would  be  most  swiftly  killed  and 
most  swiftly  borne  away  to  their  camp. 

A  head  or  two  of  game  would  not  be  missed,  nor 
a  rifle  report  away  to  one  side  cause  much  sensation 
in  all  that  great  to-do  of  the  monteria.  To  drown 
the  sound  of  the  poachers'  guns,  there  would  be  the 
baying  and  tinkling  of  bell-carrying  dogs,  the 
trumpeting  of  huntsmen  upon  their  caracolas,  the 


THE  WOLF-CUB  119 

shooting  of  blank  cartridges  to  announce  that  some 
game-beast  had  been  jumped,  the  crashing  of  beat- 
ers through  the  thorny  cistus,  and  the  running  re- 
ports of  magazine  rifles  along  the  ray  as  or  open 
rides. 

After  the  poaching  Gypsies  had  gone  on  their 
quest,  Quesada  sauntered  down  to  the  brook. 
Here,  where  an  arcade  of  oleanders  shaded  a  tiny 
white  beach,  he  seated  himself  upon  a  huge  stone 
above  a  pool.  He  busied  with  watching  the  trout  in 
the  riffles  and  with  spying  upon  two  water  shrews 
that  swam  beneath  the  surface  of  the  slack  water, 
and  dipped  and  dived,  seeking  everywhere  for  food. 
For  something  like  half  an  hour,  these  velvety -black 
little  creatures  engrossed  Quesada's  attention. 
Then,  as  pebbles  tinkled  down  near  at  hand,  he 
looked  up  to  see  the  girl  Paquita  coming  down  the 
bank. 

She  seated  herself  beside  him  on  one  end  of  the 
stone,  swinging  her  bare  brown  fee,t  above  the 
pool. 

"You  have  not  said  that  I  look  very  pretty  in  this 
green  Spanish  dress,"  she  said  at  length.  "But 
that  is  your  thought,  is  it  not?  It  would  not  be 
difficult  for  me  to  be  the  proud  and  aristocratic  lady, 
eh,  man?  But  I  would  rebel  if  I  must  wear  shoes! 
I  think  my  sun-burnt  little  feet  are  prettier  naked 
as  they  are !  " 

Quesada  smiled  and  continued  to  smoke  his 
cigarette. 

She  leaned  her  body  against  the  bole  of  the  tree 
behind,  and  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head,  and 
thoughtfully  regarded  him.  After  a  time,  she  said : 


120  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"Tell  me,  caballero  of  my  soul — tell  me,  have 
you  ever  loved  a  Gypsy  girl,  a  brown,  soft-cooing 
maiden  of  the  Zincali  who  was  sugar  and  wine  to 
kiss,  and  velvet  and  Filipino  silk  to  caress?  " 

No,  Jacinto  Quesada  had  not. 

"It  is  not  too  late,  intrepid  one,  to  make  amends ! 
Any  Gypsy  wench  would  be  most  glad  to  have  you 
for  a  lover.  Even  a  Gypsy  count's  daughter,  even 
the  loveliest  Gypsy  maid  in  all  the  Spains,  would  not 
be  too  proud  to  cling  to  your  kisses,  Busno  though 
you  be!  Don  Jacinto,  I — I — Paquita — could  love 
you,  and  no  trouble  at  all !  " 

Persistently,  he  watched  the  water  shrews  in  the 
runlet. 

"Am  I  not  prettier  than  she  ?  " 

"Of  whom  do  you  speak?  " 

"This  highborn  lady,  this  slow-blooded  and  cold 
aristocrat — she  who  is  as  pale  as  a  sickly  lily,  as 
slender  and  ungraceful  as  a  growing  boy — this 
Felicidad!" 

"I  would  not  say  she  is  too  slender,  Paquita;  I 
would  not  say  she  is  too  pale!  It  is  only  that  her 
sort  of  beauty  does  not  please  you,  because  it  is 
not  the  Gypsy  kind  with  which  you  are  familiar." 

"It  is  not  that,  Don  Jacinto !  I  have  seen  her  un- 
clothed, I  have  seen  her  costumed  only  in  her  ala- 
baster skin.  There  she  stood  in  as  much  loveliness 
as  the  Senor  Don  Dios  had  thought  fit  to  give  her. 
And  I  looked  her  up  and  down  with  a  woman's  eye. 
Chachipe!  the  wench  had  nothing  of  fascination  and 
beauty  about  her  that  I  have  not!  She  is  young, 
yes,  and  soft,  yes,  and  smooth  of  skin,  and  some- 
what gracefully  shaped.  But  she  is  at  least  three 


THE  WOLF-CUB  121 

years  older  than  I,  and  she  is  no  more  a  woman, 
no  better  rounded.  My  breasts  are  as  fully  blos- 
somed and  alluring!  My — " 

"Paquita,  you  are  indiscreet !  " 

"Indiscreet?  I,  a  Gypsy  girl,  indiscreet?  Don 
Jacinto,  we  Gitanas  are  never  indiscreet !  A  kiss  or 
two,  an  errant  arm  about  the  waist,  or  a  hand  upon 
the  breasts — what  of  that?  An  uncovered  bosom, 
a  shapely  leg  bared  to  the  knee — there  is  little  evil 
in  that.  But  if  you  venture  too  far,  if  you  touch 
upon  our  honor,  thinking  that  we  and  honor  to 
each  other  are  strangers — Tate !  you  will  find  a  dirk 
has  nosed  its  way  between  your  ribs !  " 

She  laughed  mockingly,  showing  her  fine  white 
Gypsy  teeth. 

"Am  I  indiscreet  in  speaking  as  I  did  about  this 
girl  of  the  Busne?  Did  I  not  undress  and  dress  her 
with  my  own  hands?" 

"But  you  need  not  tell  these  things  to  me.  I 
think  her  beautiful  to  death!  " 

"Oh,  you  cannot  love  her !  " 

"Love  her?     I  do  not  know." 

"Ah,  but  if  you  once  turned  your  eyes  upon  poor 
wistful  me — chachipe!  you  would  soon  know 
whether  you  loved  me!  I  would  make  you  hunger 
for  me  like  a  famished  wolf,  I  would  make  your 
blood  race  and  burn!  When  I  danced  the  jota,  or 
the  Romalis,  or  merely  moved  languorously  about, 
you  would  suffer  all  the  thirsty  bitterness  of  hell, 
all  the  exalted  sweets  of  heaven !  " 

Jacinto  Quesada  looked  away. 

"But  I  do  not  desire  to  love  you,  Paquita." 

"Si,  si;  but  ah,  if  you  only  would!     Could  you 


122  THE  WOLF-CUB 

not  love  me  only  a  little — you  who  are  so  proud  and 
courageous,  you  who  are  so  strong  and  absolute  ?  " 

Jacinto  Quesada  turned  his  head  and  plunged  his 
austere  glance  into  her  deep  yearning  eyes. 

"Paquita,"  he  said,  not  coldly,  but  without  any 
weakness  of  pity,  "it  is  because  I  am  strong  and  ab- 
solute that  I  cannot  love  you.  When  your  eye 
caresses  me  with  its  look,  your  tongue  with  its  sub- 
tle flattery,  my  masculinity  rebels  at  the  thought  of 
being  wooed  by  a  woman ;  I  am  revolted,  sickened ! 
Fling  your  soul  with  the  same  impetuosity  and  pas- 
sion to  some  Gypsy  lad,  and  he  may  love  you;  but 
I — no,  never  I !  " 

She  groaned  aloud,  knowing  full  well  that  he 
spoke  a  primitive  truth.  But  she  could  not  help 
yearning  toward  him,  her  face  bloodless  with  de- 
sire. 

Said  he,  <£If  you  would  but  flee  away  from  me,  or 
shudder  when  your  glance  meets  mine,  or  even  treat 
me  with  disdain  and  coldness,  perhaps  then — who 
knows?  But  I  must  be  the  predatory  one,  the 
seeker,  the  stalker!  Else  I  cannot  love." 

He  made  as  if  to  rise.  But  before  he  could  get 
upon  his  feet,  she  leaped  up  and  bent  above  him  and 
kissed  him  full  upon  the  lips.  Then  swiftly  and 
blindly  she  fled. 

Once  she  had  gone,  Quesada  did  not  bestir  him- 
self. He  sat  gazing  morosely  into  the  limpid  tarn 
below  his  rock. 

From  a  great  distance,  from  away  up  in  the 
mountains,  there  dropped  down  vaguely  to  his  ears 
the  ringing  note  of  a  pack  of  hounds  in  full  cry. 
Came  also,  every  little  while,  the  bark  of  rifles  re- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  123 

mote  and  far.  Quesada  gave  no  heed  to  these 
sounds.  All  through  the  morning,  the  mountain 
airs  had  wafted  through  the  barranca  vagrant  notes 
of  this  same  refrain. 

Very  suddenly,  however,  Quesada  heard,  from 
much  nearer  at  hand,  the  voices  of  men  shouting 
and  hallooing.  He  heard  his  own  name  called. 
The  voices  drew  nearer.  The  shouting  men  were 
in  the  barranca  itself;  they  were  noisily  proceeding 
through  the  rattling  underwood.  He  heard  them 
on  the  path  above  his  nook  by  the  pool,  still  calling 
his  name.  He  did  not  lift  his  voice  in  reply,  nor 
even  turn  his  head.  But  suddenly,  from  the  bushes 
within  touch  of  his  hand  and  right  behind  his  head, 
a  voice  spoke  out,  sharply,  peremptorily : 

"Aupa,  Don  Jacinto!  There  is  no  time  to  be 
lost.  Already  they  are  entering  the  gateway  to 
this  barranca !  " 

Looking  over  his  shoulder,  Quesada  saw,  no  more 
than  a  yard  in  the.  rear  and  peering  through  a  hole 
in  the  bushes,  an  uncouth  disheveled  face  like  the 
face  of  a  satyr  or  faun — the  Gypsy-eyed,  bronzed, 
and  grizzle-bearded  face  of  Pepe  Flammenca. 

"Of  whom  do  you  speak?  "  asked  the  bandolero. 

Answered  Pepe  Flammenca;  "Of  Manuel  Mo- 
rales and  his  fantastic  cabalgadores !  " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"WE  chanced  to  look  down  from  a  great  rock 
on  the  mountain  above,"  explained  Pepe  Flam- 
menca,  as  swiftly  he  and  Quesada  returned  to  the 
clearing,  "and  we  saw  them  moving  across  the 
broad  sallow  face  of  the  plain,  like  slow-crawling 
sticky  flies.  For  quite  a  time  we  watched  them, 
wondering  if  they  would  come  this  way.  They  ap- 
proached across  the  high  plains,  making  straight 
for  the  entrance  to  this  barranca.  They  ascended 
the  hills,  and  then  I  returned  alone  to  warn  you  that 
they  would  be  here  shortly.  My  lads  continued  on 
without  me.  They  will  skulk  along  the  fringe  of 
the  Senor  Don  Pablo's  great  monteria,  and  I  am 
willing  to  swear  they  will  not  come  back  empty- 
handed." 

"You  counted  the  cabalgadores — there  were 
nine?" 

"Seguramente,  yes.  And  the  noses  of  their  car- 
bines flashed  like  leaping  trout  in  the  sun.  And  two 
wore  scarlet,  two  yellow,  and  another  green.  The 
green  one  was  Morales  himself,  yes?  " 

Quesada  nodded  shortly. 

"They  did  not  ride  with  impetuosity,  you  say; 
they  rode  painfully  slow?  We  have  still  time  then, 
friend  Pepe,  to  make  a  clean  get-away  before  they 
climb  through  the  barranca.  With  but  fifteen  min- 
utes' grace  I  will  guarantee  to  show  my  heels  to  the 
fleetest  caballeros  in  all  the  Spains !  " 


THE  WOLF-CUB  125 

They  entered  the  clearing.  Before  one  of  the 
tents  of  many  colors  sat  Felicidad  like  a  golden- 
headed  queen.  A  little  court  of  scantily  clad, 
brown-limbed  Gypsy  toddlers  were  ringed  about  her, 
engaged  in  lisping  the  songs  of  the  Zincali  for  her 
entertainment.  The  verses  sounded  very  strange 
coming  from  those  soft  baby  lips;  for  the  words 
were  all  of  love,  ardent  and  free,  of  murder  and 
revenge,  and  of  theft  and  treachery. 

His  amber  Moorish  eyes  liquid  and  softly  glow- 
ing, Jacinto  Quesada  halted  a  few  feet  off,  and 
watched  her  and  listened.  A  tousle-headed  urchin 
of  nine,  his  only  uniform  an  abbreviated  and  airy 
shirt,  stepped  forward  and  chanted,  with  gusto, 
"The  Laws  of  Romany  " : 

"O  never  with  the  Gentiles  wend, 
Nor  deem  their  speeches  true; 
Or  else,  be  certain  in  the  end 
Thy  blood  will  lose  its  hue. 

"There  runs  a  swine  down  yonder  hill, 

As  fast  as  e'er  he  can, 
And  as  he  runs  he  crieth  still, 
Come,    steal   me,    Gypsy   man. 

"To  blessed  Jesus'  holy  feet 
I'd  rush  to  kill  and  slay 
My  plighted  lass  so  fair  and  sweet, 
Should  she  the  wanton  play. 

"Thy  sire  and  mother  wrath  and  hate 

Have  vowed  against  me,  love! 
The  first,  first  night  that  from  the  gate 
We  two  together  rove. 


126  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"The  girl  I  love  more  dear  than  life, 

Should  other  gallant  woo, 
I'd  straight  unsheath  my  dudgeon  knife 

And  cut  his  weasand  through; 
Or  he,  the  conqueror  in  the  strife, 

The  same  to  me  should  do. 

"O,  I  am  not  of  gentle  clan, 

I'm  sprung  from  Gypsy  tree; 
And  I  will  be  no  gentleman, 
But  an  Egyptian  free." 

Felicidad  looked  up  and  flushed  to  a  carnation 
color  under  the  ardor  of  his  eyes.  Then,  looking 
away,  she  asked,  "What  is  it,  Jacinto?" 

"Come,  my  Felicidad!  The  sun  is  already  high 
in  the  sky ;  it  will  be  thirsty-hot  on  the  upper  slopes 
of  the  mountains.  Let  us  mount  and  ride." 

Pepe  Flammenca  had  gone  through  the  under- 
wood seeking  Rafael  Perez,  Garcia,  and  Pio  Es- 
trada ;  he  found  them  out  behind  the  wagons,  busily 
engaged  in  currycombing  and  burnishing  their  new 
horses.  Now  he  returned  with  the  three  at  his 
heels,  himself  and  two  of  Quesada's  dorados  bear- 
ing a  raffle  of  harness  in  their  hands  and  saddles  on 
their  shoulders,  and  the  third  leading  by  their  halters 
the  five  barebacked  animals. 

At  once  and  swiftly,  Quesada's  ruffians  com- 
menced to  cinch  the  saddles  upon  the  horses.  De- 
spite haste,  the  work  was  done  most  efficiently. 

Quesada  called  Pepe  Flammenca  aside.  He  had 
become  possessed  of  a  new  idea.  He  and  the  Gypsy 
chieftain  put  their  heads  together.  Then  Quesada 
called  Rafael  Perez  over  to  them  with  a  beckon 


THE  WOLF-CUB  127 

of  the  hand.  Perez,  too,  joined  in  the  low- whis- 
pered zipizape  of  words.  An  impudent  and  fan- 
tastic intrigue  was  plotted  out,  then  and  there,  by 
that  assorted  trinity.  As  they  separated  again, 
Jacinto  Quesada  asked  with  sudden  doubt: 

"Will  it  be  very  difficult  to  change  the  appear- 
ance of  Perez  ?  " 

"Not  for  Pepe  Flammenca!  Am  I  not  of  the 
Zincali?  We  of  the  Zincali  can  make  a  young 
horse  seem  old  and  decrepit,  and  an  old  horse  show 
as  much  fire  and  hauteur  as  an  unbroken  stallion! 
And  chachipe!  we  can  change  a  black  horse  to 
white,  and  a  piebald  one  to  the  color  of  tobacco! 
It  is  very  simple,  Don  Jacinto,  for  the  Children  of 
Egypt" 

"If  you  can  make  me  pleasing  to  look  at," 
chuckled  Rafael  Perez,  "you  will  do  wonders !  " 

Then  he  and  Pepe  Flammenca  went  together  into 
the  tent  of  the  Gypsy  chieftain,  a  more  imposing 
tent  than  the  others.  His  horse  thereupon  was  led 
back  behind  the  wagons  and  its  harness  hung  upon 
the  limb  of  a  tree. 

"Let  us  not  tarry  now.  Aupa,  you ! "  com- 
manded Jacinto  Quesada. 

At  the  command,  Pio  Estrada  and  Ignacio  Garcia 
flung  themselves  upon  their  horses.  Quesada  stood 
beside  the  horse  of  Felicidad  and  made  a  cup  of  his 
hands.  The  golden-haired  girl  put  her  little  foot 
in  the  cup  and  was  lifted  into  the  saddle. 

Then  Quesada  walked  over  to  the  tent  of  Pepe 
Flammenca  to  say  a  final  word  to  Rafael  Perez. 
Unaided  by  a  mirror,  Rafael  Perez  was  shaving 
himself  with  care  and  yet  with  extreme  haste. 


128  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Pepe  Flammenca  sat  cross-legged  at  his  feet,  mix- 
ing a  dark  stew  of  pigments  in  an  age-blackened 
calabash. 

"I  go,  Rafael  Perez,"  said  Jacinto  Quesada,  pok- 
ing his  head  under  the  flap.  "I  abandon  you  to 
your  vices,  and  to  Manuel  Morales  and  his  cabal- 
gadores.  Be  prudent  and  discreet  and  sagacious, 
for  henceforth  you  must  enterprise  single-handed 
and  under  cover.  And  may  God  go  with  thee!  " 

"And  with  thee,  Don  Jacinto  of  my  soul !  " 

Quesada  came  back  and  threw  himself  astride 
his  horse.  "Adelante ! "  he  commanded.  The 
three  men  and  the  girl  Felicidad  filed  slowly,  on 
horseback,  out  of  the  clearing. 

As  they  proceeded  up  the  shadow-haunted  alleys 
of  the  barranca,  their  pace  quickened.  At  a  smart 
trot  they  were  approaching  the  upper  end  when,  all 
at  once,  they  were  confronted  by  a  girl  who  lingered 
beside  the  way.  It  was  Paquita — Paquita  with  a 
pink  rhododendron  in  her  blue-black  hair. 

"You  here,  Paquita?  "  Quesada  blurted.  He  was 
in  the  lead,  and  the  girl  disclosed  herself  with  such 
surprising  suddenness  that  she  seemed  a  spirit  con- 
jured up  in  a  blink  of  the  eye. 

"I  waited  here  to  say  farewell  to  you,  senor 
caballero  of  my  heart,"  she  replied.  He  made  to 
push  by,  but  she  put  her  hands  on  stirrup  and  leg, 
yearning  close.  And  panting  with  eagerness,  she 
cried : 

"Take  me  with  you,  Don  Jacinto!  For  love  of 
you  I  will  give  up  wandering  and  all  my  other 
Gypsy  ways !  We  shall  have  a  cabana  hidden  some- 
where in  the  mountains  and  secure  from  the  Guardia 


THE  WOLF-CUB  129 

Civil,  and  there  you  will  repair  to  be  made  bliss- 
ful by  me !  Take  me  with  you,  or  I  shall  sicken  and 
die,  for  I  love  you  so  ardently  that  I  am  consumed 
by  fires  within !  " 

"For  shame,  girl!  I  am  a  Busno — I  am  of  an- 
other race !  " 

She  got  on  tiptoe  and  clasped  her  bare  arms 
about  his  waist  and  clung  tenaciously,  passion- 
ately. 

"Leave  me  behind  then,  but  first — kiss  me! 
Taste  of  my  lips,  they  are  as  sweet  as  the  sweetest! 
Wrap  me  in  your  arms  so  that  I  suffocate!  Then 
kill  me,  if  you  will!  Gladly  would  I  die  under 
your  hands — death  is  better  than  to  be  disdained 
by  you ! " 

Quesada,  appalled  by  the  strength  and  ferocity 
of  her  passion,  drew  away.  He  felt  shame  before 
Felicidad.  His  face  aflame,  he  cried  angrily,  "I 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  you !  "  And  he  started 
on  again. 

Very  suddenly,  then,  her  whole  look  changed. 
The  ardent  light  fled  from  her  eyes;  forlornly  her 
hands  dropped  to  her  sides;  her  slim  girlish  figure 
drooped  and  wilted.  Most  woebegone  and  piteous 
was  she  to  see.  And  her  voice  a  plaintive,  flutter- 
ing sob,  she  called  after  him : 

"Little  caballero  of  the  handsome  face,  there  is 
a  great  tree  at  the  entrance  to  this  barranca — a 
wild  olive  that  stands  alone  and  waiting  like  a  young 
bandolero  who  attends  in  patience  until  the  com- 
ing of  nightfall  and  his  brown  Gypsy  love.  There 
will  be  a  fine  moon  to-morrow  night." 

"It  is  of  no  importa ! "  said  Quesada,  without 


130  THE  WOLF-CUB 

looking  back.  "There  shall  be  no  more  meetings 
of  you  and  me.  Go  thou  with  God!  " 

The  girl  quivered  beneath  the  scorning  words 
like  a  flame  harshly  blown  upon.  But  suddenly 
she  pulsed  rigid;  a  heat  sharp  as  pepper,  bitter  as 
bile,  violent  as  the  sun,  coursed  through  her  veins; 
her  face  grew  ashy  and  drawn,  her  dusky  eyes 
glittered  like  a  cat's.  Like  a  cat  she  was  then,  like 
a  beautiful  .she-leopard  wounded  into  a  barbarous 
and  terrible  ferocity. 

"Go  thou !  "  she  screamed — "Go  thou  with  Sa- 
tanas,  the  foul-smelling,  the  gangrened !  You  are 
not  a  man ;  you  are  a  putrescent  sore,  an  ulcer,  a 
leprosy !  I  hate  you,  I  loathe  you,  and  I  will  have 
your  life  taken  from  you  some  day!  " 

She  ran  after  him,  shrilly  screaming  her  rage. 
She  was  a  virago,  a  witch-woman!  She  picked 
up  a  stone  and  flung  it  after  him.  It  struck  the 
horse  of  Felicidad  upon  the  withers.  She  picked 
up  more  stones  and  flung  these.  And  a  thousand 
vile  curses  she  flung  also.  Coming  thus  from  a 
woman's  lips,  they  were  worse  than  an  abomina- 
tion of  sound;  they  were  a  pollution,  a  hideous 
obscenity. 

Even  Quesada's  ruffians  were  appalled.  For 
himself,  Quesada  was  most  glad  that  the  horse  of 
Felicidad  was  the  one  struck  by  the  first  stone.  In 
a  panic,  it  galloped  away.  She  was  soon  out  of 
earshot. 

They  hurried  after  her. 


CHAPTER  XV 

NOT  at  once  did  the  girl  Paquita  return  to  the 
camp  of  the  Gitanos.  Her  low  broad  brow  clouded 
with  sullen  anger,  her  dusky  eyes  somber  and 
morosely  smoldering,  she  clambered  swiftly  down 
the  rocks  of  the  watercourse.  In  the  precipitancy 
of  her  descent,  in  the  headlong  hurry  and  indecorum 
with  which  she  moved  through  swale  and  sunlight 
and  between  boulders  and  clumps  of  rhododendron, 
there  was  yet  something  of  cold  decision  and  stead- 
fastness to  purpose.  She  came  out,  at  last,  on 
the  tiny  beach  of  white  sand  beside  the  pool. 

A  red  cloth  on  a  rock  caught  her  eye.  She 
snatched  it  up  and  clenched  it  to  her  heart.  It  was 
the  head-kerchief  of  Jacinto  Quesada.  When  but 
lately  he  had  sat  and  gloomed  on  that  boulder  above 
the  pool,  he  had  dropped  it  from  his  pocket  and  gone 
off  unawares. 

She  replaced  the  red  headcloth  upon  the  boulder. 
It  lay  there  in  a  crumpled  crimson  heap,  and  it 
pulsed  a  little  as  its  folds  eased  out.  It  looked  like 
a  dying  heart. 

From  some  recess  in  her  bosom,  the  girl  Paquita 
drew  forth  a  small  moleskin  sack  on  a  string  and 
shook  its  contents  out  upon  the  top  of  the  rock. 
There  was  a  looking-glass,  smaller  than  the  palm 
of  her  small  brown  hand.  There  was  a  flint  and  a 
bit  of  steel.  There  was  a  chunk  of  lodestone,  the 
magnetic  iron-ore  which  the  Gypsies  of  Spain  call 


132  THE  WOLF-CUB 

La  Bar  Lachi  and  which  they  claim  is  possessed 
of  a  thousand  magical  and  miraculous  properties. 
There  were,  also,  a  half  dozen  other  uncouth  Rom- 
many  charms  and  talismans. 

She  propped  the  hand-glass  upright  against  the 
crumpled  head-kerchief.  She  fell  to  her  knees  be- 
fore it.  With  an  unwavering  and  strangely  intense 
gaze,  with  a  stark  contemplation,  she  stared  into  the 
eyes  reflected  from  the  mirror. 

Five  minutes,  then  ten  snailed  painfully  by.  The 
process  of  self -hypnosis  went  on.  She  was  like 
one  transfixed  by  a  hooded  cobra.  Her  body  grew 
gradually  rigid,  and  her  breathing  ever  deeper  and 
slower.  At  last  she  seemed  not  to  breathe  at  all. 
Her  eyes  vacant  and  numbly  fixed,  she  rose  slowly 
to  her  feet. 

She  crossed  the  tiny  beach  of  clean  white  sand. 
She  stooped  with  a  fluent  graceful  flexure  at  the 
brim  of  the  pool,  filled  her  hands  with  wet  sand, 
and  slowly  pressed  and  molded  that  wet  sand  into 
an  uncouth  little  image  of  a  man. 

The  diminutive  effigy  she  deposited  upon  the 
beach,  setting  it  upright  on  its  vaguely  defined  and 
overbroad  feet.  A  second  time,  she  stooped  at  the 
water's  edge,  filled  her  hands  with  sand,  and  again 
packed  and  shaped  that  wet  sand  into  a  squat  little 
figure.  Only  this  time  the  effigy  bore  a  crude  but 
easily  perceived  resemblance  to  a  woman. 

She  deposited  the  one  image  on  the  beach  be- 
side the  other.  She  gathered  dry  leaves  and  scraps 
of  tinder-rot  and  made  two  little  piles  of  them,  each 
before  a  tiny  figurine.  She  returned  to  the  boulder, 
swathed  the  lodestone  in  the  red  headcloth  and, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  133 

lodestone  and  cloth  in  hand,  bore  them  back  across 
the  beach.  And  everything  was  done  with  extreme 
slowness,  with  acute  and  painful  deliberation.  She 
was  like  a  somnambulist  in  a  walking  sleep. 

She  fetched  the  flint  and  the  steel  from  the  boul- 
der. She  could  execute,  it  seemed,  only  one  er- 
rand at  a  time.  She  dropped  to  her  knees  above 
one  of  the  tiny  piles  of  dry  leaves  and  tinder-rot, 
and  busied  herself  with  the  flint  and  steel.  So  soon 
as  the  one  leafy  hillock  commenced  to  burn  bravely, 
she  translated  its  flame.  The  other  little  bonfire 
cackled  with  a  like  eagerness  and  gusto. 

Stepping  back  from  her  uncouth  little  idols  and 
tiny  sacrificial  fires,  she  undid  a  catch  here  and  an- 
other catch  there,  and  her  shoulders  and  then  her 
hips  emerged  from  the  green  gown,  and  the  gown 
fell  in  a  swishing  billow  about  her  brown  bare  feet. 
Clad  only  in  her  olive-pale,  satin-smooth  and  satin- 
glowing  skin,  she  stepped  out  of  the  atoll  of  green 
cloth  and  commenced  a  slow  and  strange  dance  there 
upon  the  sands. 

It  was  not  a  dance  voluptuous  or  obscene.  It  was 
a  solemn  dance  of  statuesque  attitudes,  and 
flowing  flexures,  and  ceremonious  pauses.  Very 
like  was  it  to  some  ritualistic  dance  of  the  sacerdotal 
dancing  boys  of  the  Cathedral  of  Toledo.  And 
yet  there  was  in  it  a  taint  of  sorcery  and  demonola- 
try. 

She  stooped  at  the  water's  edge  to  dip  therein  her 
hands.  Dancing  on,  she  shook  a  few  drops  of 
water  from  her  finger  tips  down  upon  the  flames. 
Smoke  arose,  a  gust  of  smoke  for  each  trinity  of 
drops.  The  while  her  eyes  remained  fixed  and 


134  THE  WOLF-CUB 

vacant  and  she  danced  slowly,  she  chanted  a  sort  of 
weird  incantation  in  the  gerigonza  of  the  Zincali. 

Her  voice  was  very  low  and  came  as  with  great 
effort.  This  was  the  rigmarole  she  chanted,  trans- 
lated from  the  Romany,  which  is  descended  from 
the  Sanskrit  and  which  it  much  resembles : 

"To  the  Mountain  of  Olives  one  morning  I  hied, 
Three  little  black  goats  before  me  I  spied, 
Those  three  little  goats  on  three  cars  I  laid, 
Black  cheeses  three  from  their  milk  I  made; 
The  one  I  bestow  on  the  lodestone  of  power, 
That  save  me  it  may  from  all  ills  that  lower; 
The  second  to  Mary  Padilla  x  I  give, 
And  to  all  the  witch  hags  about  her  that  live; 
The  third  I  reserve  for  Asmodeus  2  lame, 
That  fetch  me  he  may  whatever  I  name." 

The  rhythm  of  that  solemn  dance  grew  ever  more 
sprightly.  Her  languor  dropped  from  her  like  a 
discarded  shift.  Faster  and  faster  her  brown  bare 
feet  beat  the  sands.  She  leaped  ecstatically  in  air. 
Suddenly  the  dance  ended  in  a  whirl  of  exaltation. 
Then,  for  a  long  minute,  she  stood  like  one  petri- 
fied, like  a  statue  sculptured  in  onyx,  her  brown 
arms  upflung,  her  face  uplifted  and  sublimated. 
And  in  the  voice  of  a  demoniac,  she  screamed : 

"Oh,  el  buen  Baron!  O  Asmodeus  the  Lame! 
Send  an  evil  upon  the  arrogant  head  of  the  strip- 
ling Quesada,  he  who  tore  the  heart  from  my  virgin 

1  Mary  de  Padilla,  a  notorious  witch  of  Medieval  Spain  and 
mistress  of  Peter  the  Cruel  of  Castile  (1333-1369). 

2  Asmodeus,  an  evil  demon.    Appears  in  later  Jewish  tra- 
ditions as  "king  of  demons."     Also  Beelzebub  and  Apollyon. 
Familiarly  called  the  genius  of  matrimonial  unhappiness,  or 
jealousy. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  135 

breast  and  then  ground  it  beneath  his  heel  as  though 
it  were  a  ball  of  dung!  Accursed  was  the  salt 
placed  in  his  mouth  in  the  church  when  he  was  bap- 
tized, the  vile  Busno !  He  is  too  disdainful  of  me, 
too  contemptuous!  Send  a  black  evil  upon  him 
and  his,  O  Asmodeus !  O  Apollyon !  By  the  three 
black  little  goats  and  the  three  black  little  cheeses, 
I  invoke  you! 

"Humble  him,  break  his  heart  of  arrogant  cold 
granite  by  making  those  he  loves  most  fondly  fall 
into  fevers  and  die  like  flies  in  a  frost!  Send  an 
evil  of  hideous  disease  upon  those  about  him! 
Make  those  about  him  fall  ill  of  horrid  discharges 
and  cramps  of  the  stomach;  then  weaken  them  by 
causing  them  to  vomit  a  gray  pasty  whey;  then 
turn  their  bodies  to  blue  and  purple,  and  then  let 
them  die  within  twelve  or  twenty-four  hours ! 

"Break  his  spirit  as  my  father  breaks  the  spirit 
of  a  proud  black  stallion,  O  Asmodeus  the  Lame! 
Do  this  for  thy  handmaid  and  votaress,  do  this 
for  Caste  Sonacai,  known  to  the  Busne  as  Paquita, 
the  child  of  Flammenco  Chorolengro,  hetman  of 
the  clan  of  Barolengro  and  count  of  the  people  of 
Zend !  " 

You  must  know  that  the  Gypsies  of  Spain  prac- 
tice a  magic  of  two  kinds.  Their  magic  of  the  first 
kind  is  compounded  of  pure  bunkum  and  fraud. 
Always  in  public  do  they  practice  this  charlatanry 
and  upon  gullible  Gentiles  whom  they  hope  to  ho- 
cus-pocus and  swindle  out  of  a  few  pesetas.  When 
they  tell  a  buena  ventura,  or  fortune,  by  crossing  the 
dupe's  palm  with  a  piece  of  the  dupe's  gold,  this  i* 
the  sort  of  arrant  nonsense  they  practice.  The 


136  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Hokkano  Baro,  the  Great  Trick,  is  another  of  their 
thieves'  devices.  The  Ustilar  Pastesas  and  the 
Chiving  Drao  are  still  others.  In  not  one  of  the 
swindling  tricks  mentioned  do  they  use  any  true 
clairvoyancy  or  authentic  warlockry;  it  is  all  sleight- 
of-hand  and  humbuggery.  At  this  kind  of  magic 
the  Gypsies  laugh  loudest  themselves. 

Those  who  in  public  practice  magic  in  order  to 
hoodwink  others,  always  practice  in  secret  another 
sort  of  magic  which  they  consider  the  true  magic, 
and  in  which  they  devoutly  believe.  This  is  dogma. 
Did  not  the  priests  of  ancient  Egypt  make  magic 
in  public  to  the  cat-headed  god  Bast,  the  bull  Ptah, 
and  the  lioness  Sakhmi  whom  they  despised  as  im- 
ages of  stone  and  machinery,  but  to  whom  they 
salaamed  that  the  ignorant  rabble  might  continue 
to  be  hoodwinked  ?  And  did  not  those  same  priests 
make  magic  in  secret  to  the  one  true  God?  Thus 
with  the  Gypsies.  In  secret  they  practice  another 
and  second  kind  of  sorcery  which  they  believe  in 
with  a  fanatic  faith! 

And  that  was  the  kind  of  magic  the  girl  Paquita 
practiced  in  secret  down  on  the  tiny  beach  by  the 
oleander-arcaded  pool.  Her  execration  solemnly 
concluded,  the  beautiful  and  youthful  dealer  in  the 
warlockry  of  the  Roms  became  again  a  hot  wind 
of  action.  Swiftly  she  ran  to  the  pool,  filled  her 
cupped  hands  with  water,  and  as  swiftly  came  back 
again. 

The  fires  had  died  down  into  twin  nests  of  coals. 
She  cast  no  water  upon  them.  What  water  she 
carried  in  her  cupped  hands,  she  threw  upon  that 
little  sand  image  which  resembled  a  man. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  137 

Without  pausing  to  watch  the  havoc  she  played 
with  her  handiwork,  she  repeated  the  action,  this 
time  throwing  water  upon  the  little  effigy  which 
looked  vaguely  like  a  woman.  Then,  her  midnight- 
black  hair  falling  about  her  face  and  her  dusky  eyes 
burning  from  beneath  the  obscuring  oily  threads 
with  a  strange  sibylline  fire,  she  crouched  on  her 
brown  bare  heels  before  the  two  sodden  hillocks  of 
sand. 

Now,  when  standing  upright,  the  two  little  im- 
ages of  sand  had  seemed  mated  divinities,  bound 
together  by  a  common  majesty.  In  their  downfall 
and  watery  ruin,  however,  one  might  say  that  they 
had  become  antagonized ;  there  was  that  in  the  way 
they  fell  which  suggested  a  coldness  between  them,  a 
rift,  a  void.  In  melting  and  crumbling,  the  two 
watersoaked  little  images  had  fallen  gently  away 
from  each  other. 

Paquita  got  up  and  shook  back  the  hair  from  her 
face.  Her  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  glowing  with 
glad  triumph.  She  laughed  long  and  arrantly. 

"It  is  written  in  the  sands ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"She  will  never  1  ave  Jacinto  Quesada  for  her  bride- 
groom. It  is  written;  it  has  been  shown  to  me! 
Never  will  those  two  lie  down  together  on  the 
bed  of  marriage!  And  a  plague — even  that  hide- 
ous plague  I  asked  for — shall  come  upon  them; 
a  plague  of  low  fevers  and  cramps  of  the  stomach; 
a  plague  that  shall  color  their  bodies  blue  and 
purple ! " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HYPNOSIS  is  an  abnormal  cerebral  state  that  soon 
wears  off.  As  one  who  wakes  from  a  sleep  or  a 
spell,  the  girl  Paquita  now  stretched  her  arms  wide, 
blinked  her  eyes,  and  looked  swiftly  over  her  shoul- 
ders and  this  way  and  that. 

Then  slowly,  her  head  bowed  in  thought,  her 
brow  knotted  in  a  little  puzzled  frown,  she  walked 
to  where  lay  rumpled  on  the  sand  her  ocean-green 
Spanish  gown.  She  slipped  into  it,  returned, 
stamped  into  the  beach  the  debris  of  the  two  im- 
ages and  then  clambered  up  the  rocks.  She  left  the 
watercourse  behind,  and  neared  the  camp  of  the 
Gitanos. 

As  she  came  through  the  trees  that  palisaded  the 
clearing  round,  she  heard  her  father's  voice  and 
answering  voices  that  she  never  before  had  heard. 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  crept  forward  quietly, 
almost  to  the  edge  of  the  line  of  trees.  Her  body 
hidden  by  a  bush,  she  parted  the  screening  foliage 
with  her  hands  and  looked  out  as  through  a  little 
window. 

Her  father,  Pepe  Flammenca,  known  to  the 
Gypsies  as  Flammenco  Chorolengro,  stood  face  to 
face  with  an  oddly  attired  stranger  and  with  him 
busily  talked.  The  fantastic  stranger  was  hardly 
thirty.  He  was  a  little  below  the  middle  height, 
had  a  long  body  and  short  muscular  legs,  and  seemed 
all  iron  and  strength. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  139 

He  wore  the  black  rosette  and  ribbons  of  a 
matador  in  his  coleta,  his  queue — that  long,  thick, 
and  sacred  lock  of  hair  all  bullfighters  wear  as 
the  time-honored  insignia  of  their  ancient  profes- 
sion. His  brown  Andalusian  face  was  the  typical 
young  bullfighter's  face — boyish,  almost  effeminate 
with  its  mild  contours.  Upon  his  hands  he  wore 
riding  gloves.  Over  the  shoulders  of  his  short, 
gold-braided  green  jacket  were  slung  bandoleers 
crowded  with  cartridges.  On  a  belt  about  his  waist 
hung  a  revolver  and  a  sheathed  knife.  The  pink 
silk  stockings  that  clad  his  legs  were  almost  con- 
cealed by  a  pair  of  riding-boots  of  Cordovan  horse- 
hide. 

Addressing  Pepe  Flammenca,  he  said,  "A  hun- 
dred times,  in  the  last  four  days,  we  have  lost  our 
way  on  the  plains.  And  now  we  are  about  to  as- 
sault the  defiles  and  goat  paths  of  the  Sierra  Mo- 
rena.  We  must  have  a  guide.  You  know  the 
mountains ;  agree  to  guide  us  at  your  own  price !  " 

Behind  him,  standing  in  various  attitude  of  at- 
tention, was  a  whole  background  of  men  in  oddly 
assorted  costumes.  When  he  spoke,  they  all  nodded 
assent  like  a  Greek  chorus,  and  remarked,  "Si, 
si ! "  Evidently,  the  young  matador  was  their 
spokesman. 

"I  cannot,"  Pepe  Flammenca  answered;  "I  must 
stay  here.  I  am  the  chief  of  this  clan  and  must 
remain  with  my  own  people.  But  there  is  another 
Gitano  somewhere  about  the  camp.  To  replenish 
our  stock  of  wild  meat,  the  others  went  early  away, 
but  he  and  I  stayed  behind  to  look  after  the  horses 
and  foals.  With  my  permission,  he  can  guide  you. 


140  THE  WOLF-CUB 

He  knows  the  Sierra  Morena  thoroughly.  I  will 
call  him." 

Pepe  Flammenca  turned  round,  cupped  his  hands 
about  his  mouth  and  bellowed,  "Aguilino!  " 

Came  forth  from  behind  the  wagons,  another 
man  whom  Paquita  had  never  laid  eyes  on  before. 

He  was  clean-shaven,  and  brown  as  a  mulatto. 
He  wore  the  corduroy  leggings  of  a  Gypsy  and  a 
red-striped  shirt,  and  in  true  Zincali  fashion,  his 
head  was  wrapped  tightly  with  a  red  kerchief. 
Where  his  left  eyebrow  once  had  been,  was  a  hide- 
ous yellow  scar  that  curved  down  as  far  as  the 
cheek  bone.  What  with  his  harsh  and  evil  features 
and  his  mulatto-mahogany  skin,  this  yellow  scar 
gave  him  an  altogether  villainous  look.  In  his  left 
hand,  he  held  a  currycomb. 

As  the  man  approached,  Pepe  Flammenca  turned 
to  another  of  the  strangers  and  remarked  : 

"When  you  first  accosted  me,  after  dismounting, 
you  asked  me  for  news  of  the  bandolero,  Jacinto 
Quesada.  Three  times  you  asked  me,  and  three 
times  I  gave  you  the  same  reply.  I  was  most 
truthful,  but  you  were  not  assured.  You  showed 
me  a  hand  in  which  lay  five  gold  coins.  You 
thought  I  had  clenched  my  tongue  between  my  teeth 
for  some  good  reason,  and  the  sight  of  the  red 
metal  would  make  me  loosen  it.  But  even  your 
tempting  golden  Alfonsos  did  not  cause  me  to  lie. 
I  have  not  seen  Jacinto  Quesada  in  months,  I  repeat. 
I  have  had  no  word  of  him  in  months.  Of  his  re- 
cent movements  I  know  nothing. 

"But  question  this  buck  of  my  clan,  this  Aguilino! 
You  will  be  assured  of  my  honesty,  then.  I  desire 


THE  WOLF-CUB  141 

that.  I  know  one  of  you  to  be  Manuel  Morales, 
the  greatest  matador  in  all  the  Spains,  and  I  desire 
Manuel  Morales  to  be  convinced  that  Pepe  Flam- 
menca  is  no  teller  of  lies." 

"I  am  convinced  already,  my  friend ! "  inter- 
posed Morales  at  that.  "Your  last  words  convince 
me." 

But  another  of  the  strangers,  a  foreign-looking 
hombre,  proved  more  cautious. 

"We  will  do  what  you  say  and  question  this 
man,"  he  agreed  in  stilted  and  strongly  accented 
Spanish.  "But  first  let  us  find  out  whether  this 
Little  Eagle  of  yours  will  guide  us  through  the 
mountains.  That's  the  most  important  business." 

The  man  with  the  foreign  accent  was  big,  broad- 
shouldered,  fair-haired  and  as  smooth-shaven  as 
any  bullfighter.  He  was  square  of  face,  his  jaw 
was  a  round  resolute  knob,  and  his  eyes  were  blue 
and  very  steady  in  gaze.  He  was  garbed  in  a 
dark  sack  suit  of  rather  formal  cut,  a  pair  of  tan 
riding  boots  and  a  peaked  Manchegan  sombrero; 
and  heavily  equipped  with  a  belt  of  cartridges,  a 
carbine  and  a  Colt's  automatic.  It  was  the  Ameri- 
can, John  Fremont  Carson. 

The  nine  fantastic  looking  cabalgadores  closed 
about  the  ruffianly  Aguilino.  They  listened  eagerly 
while  Carson  spoke  to  him  in  low  persuasive  tones. 
At  length  Aguilino  commenced  nodding  his  head, 
saying,  "Si !  I  agree.  Si !  I  will  go  with  you." 

The  tall  Frenchman  with  the  waxed  mustache, 
Jacques  Ferou,  whispered  triumphantly  in  Carson's 
ear,  "We  have  our  guide.  Now  let  fall  the  name 
of  Jacinto  Quesada !  " 


THE  WOLF-CUB 

But  the  man  Aguilino  did  not  recoil  at  the  sharp 
and  sudden  mention  of  the  bandolero. 

"Seguramente,  yes;  I  have  heard  of  him  often. 
On  the  plains  and  in  the  mountains.  He  is  a  most 
celebrated  man.  No,  I  have  never  seen  him  in  the 
flesh.  Nor  have  I  word  of  his  recent  movements. 
You  say  that  he  must  have  passed  this  way  either 
in  the  dark  of  last  night  or  in  the  gray  of  this  very 
morning?  Ah,  senores,  you  do  not  know  how 
many  barrancas  there  are  that  gutter  these  foot- 
hills! You  do  not  know  how  like  a  shadow  this 
man  Jacinto  Quesada  is — how  like  a  fox  that  skull  s 
and  dodges  and  keeps  always  his  distance  from  the 
habitations  and  bivouacs  of  men  such  as  we! 
Jacinto  Quesada  come  to  our  camp  and  break  bread 
with  us?  Ah,  senores,  senores,  that  would  be  too 
much  honor !  " 

The  nine  men  exchanged  glances  of  disappoint- 
ment and  dismay.  They  had  been  altogether  off 
in  their  guess.  Jacinto  Quesada  had  not  stopped 
in  passing  to  hobnob  with  the  Gypsies.  He  had  not 
passed  that  way  at  all.  The  cabalgadores  felt  them- 
selves like  beagles  who  mill  around  and  bark  in 
vain  braggadocio.  Jacinto  Quesada  had  shaken 
them  off  his  heels.  Neither  sight  nor  smell  of  their 
game  had  they. 

At  this  disheartening  stage,  suddenly  from  the 
forest  a  nut-brown  girl  in  a  green  dress  came  out 
and  stood  before  them.  She  was  round  limbed  and 
delicately  graceful  as  any  nymph  or  naiad  of  the 
glens  and  waterfalls.  Her  dye-black  hair  hung 
loose  upon  her  shoulders;  two  spots  of  hot  crimson 
burned  on  the  roundness  of  her  cheeks ;  and  her  eyes 


THE  WOLF-CUB  343 

pulsed  like  fiery  opals.  She  seemed  all  aflame  with 
some  strong  emotion.  In  a  throaty  shaking  voice, 
she  cried  out: 

"My  father  lies!  This  Aguilino  whom  I  have 
never  seen  before — he  too  lies!  Jacinto  Quesada 
has  been  here,  in  this-  very  spot !  He  came  to  this 
barranca  in  the  dark  of  last  night — he  and  three 
dorados  and  a  tall  ungraceful  wench,  pale  as  a 
sickly  lily!  They  were  given  food,  they  were  given 
shelter  for  the  night.  Then  went  away  but  two 
hours  ago.  They  went  on  up  the  canyon !  " 

A  sharp  gust  of  wind  shrilled  through  the  bar- 
ranca, rattling  among  the  trees  overhead.  The  sky 
seemed  suddenly  to  darken,  the  day  to  grow  colder. 
Pepe  Flammenca  snarled  aloud,  between  bared 
fangs,  in  the  gerigonza  of  the  Gypsies  which  the 
strangers  did  not  understand: 

"You  horrible  flea,  you  maggot  of  the  dung,  you 
vile  daughter  of  an  unfaithful  mother!  Into  my 
tan  and  say  not  another  word!  For  every  word 
you  have  said,  you  shall  pay  with  ten  lashes  of 
greenhide  across  your  bare  back !  " 

The  cabalgadores  could  not  know  what  he  said, 
but  they  sensed  the  threat  shaking  his  voice.  No 
one  spoke  or  made  a  move.  The  girl  looked  at  her 
father  a  moment  with  eyes  like  cold  gloomy  moun- 
tain lakes,  then  moved  slowly  toward  the  large 
tent  of  the  hetman.  Her  lips  were  set  in  a  dis- 
dainful and  a  triumphant  smile. 

About  the  clearing  and  above  her  head,  the  trees 
shook  and  swayed  as  in  an  agony.  Three  great 
drops  of  water  fell  with  the  weight  of  leaden  bullets 
and  made  slow  stains  upon  her  green  gown.  The 


144  THE  WOLF-CUB 

dog-grass,  vetch  and  darnels  of  the  clearing  lifted 
up  and  seemed  to  drink  the  air.  A  storm  was  ap- 
proaching. Leaves  whirled  about  like  a  hundred 
excited  birds.  • 

Of  a  sudden,  the  girl  Paquita  paused  near  the 
tent  to  turn  her  head  and  fling  back  the  words : 

"I  have  not  lied !  Though  my  father  will  beat  me 
for  it,  I  have  told  the  truth!  I  hate  Jacinto 
Quesada ! " 

"Say  another  word,  thou  child  of  a  witch-woman 
and  a  demon !  "  sibilated  Pepe  Flammenca  in  the 
Gypsy  gerigonza,  "and  I  will  kill  thee  with  my  bare 
hands!" 

The  girl  Paquita  entered  the  tent  of  her  father, 
there  to  await  him  and  his  whip  of  greenhide. 

Suddenly  and  with  great  gusto,  it  began  to  rain. 
Great  drops  of  water,  lead-gray  and  heavy  as  shot, 
pelted  down.  The  cabalgadores  sought  the  cover 
of  the  trees.  But  the  trees  afforded  little  shelter, 
as  the  rain  volleyed  this  way  and  that  at  the  will 
of  the  gusts  of  wind,  and  each  drop  seemed  to  hold 
a  whole  cupful  of  icy  water.  In  a  trice,  the  men 
were  wet  to  the  skin. 

Pepe  Flammenca  motioned  them  to  the  tents. 
Manuel  Morales,  Jacques  Ferou,  and  the  American, 
Carson,  found  themselves  together  beneath  the  same 
protection  of  canvas  and  vari-colored  rags. 

"What  do  you  think?  "  asked  Morales. 

"That  she  spoke  the  truth,"  returned  the  French- 
man. "She  had  on  my  Felicidad's  green  travel- 
ing dress.  Jacinto  Quesada  has  indeed  been  here." 

"But  will  that  great  bearded  Gypsy  beat  the 
girl  ?  "  anxiously  asked  Carson. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  145 

The  tall  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  Zincali  are  a  strange  people,  mon  Ameri- 
cain! "  said  he.  "And,  besides,  she  said  he  is  her 
father.  Would  you  interpose  between  a  father 
and  his  daughter?  " 

Carson  subsided  into  a  gloomy  silence  and  looked 
about  the  tent. 

"But  this  guide,  Aguilino,"  continued  Ferou. 
"He  lied  to  us,  Morales.  Should  we  trust  our- 
selves to  his  guidance?  " 

"What  would  you?"  returned  Morales  in  Span- 
ish fashion.  "We  must  have  a  guide  in  these  moun- 
tains, and  there  is  no  one  else  to  hire.  Surely,  this 
Aguilino  is  better  than  no  guide.  We  will  watch 
him,  we  nine  men,  and  above  all,  we  will  go 
on." 

The  American  motioned  them  into  silence.  He 
nodded  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  rear  of  the 
tent.  Behind  them,  they  saw  a  naked  child  asleep 
on  a  blanket  between  two  dogs  and  an  old  hag  of  a 
Gitana  crouched  in  a  corner,  her  eyes  alive  and  fixed 
unwaveringly  upon  them. 

The  men  remained  wordless  but  they  did  not  sit 
down.  The  smell  of  unwashed  bodies  and  much- 
used  body  blankets  of  a  sudden  breathed  into  their 
nostrils.  The  tent  was  filthy.  All  at  once,  the  three 
wished  themselves  out  in  the  sweet,  clean,  if  wet 
open  again. 

"What  these  folk  need  is  education,"  whispered 
Carson  in  Morales'  ear.  "Education  can  do  every- 
thing!" 

"Education,  si !  "  returned  Morales  in  the  same 
manner.  "But  what  they  need  more  is  some  one 


I46  THE  WOLF-CUB 

with  a  lion  heart,  a  great  golden  arrogant  heart,  to 
lead  them  in  the  fight,  to  lead  them  up !  " 

Jacques  Ferou  said  nothing,  but  as  he  followed 
them  out  into  the  open,  he  smiled  his  calculating 
and  very  superior  smile. 

Outside,  the  very  mountains  above  seemed  to  have 
melted  away  into  opaque  sheets  of  driving  water. 
The  earth  was  sliding  in  brown  streams  from  un- 
der their  feet.  The  barranca  boomed  like  a  thou- 
sand drums  beaten  by  mad  Arabs. 

To  make  himself  heard  above  the  booming  of 
the  rain,  Jacques  Ferou  cupped  his  hands  about  his 
mouth  and  screamed  into  the  faces  of  the  others : 
"Let  us  go  back.  Sacre,  we  are  soaking  water 
here!" 

"No !  "  returned  the  others,  and  they  grimaced  in 
disgust.  But  the  rain  fell  with  such  outrageous 
passion  that  it  was  unendurable;  there  was  naught 
to  do  but  return  within  the  tent. 

Driven  to  it,  they  sought  the  shelter  of  the  tent 
once  again,  but  found  it  now  a  very  poor  shelter  be- 
neath that  onslaught  of  rain.  It  leaked  like  a  Japa- 
nese paper  umbrella.  And  all  the  time  the  trees 
ran  with  heavy  tears,  and  the  rain  flooded  down 
with  a  tumultuous  booming  and  a  morose  persist- 
ency. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THAT  night,  after  the  storm  ceased  and  a  spell 
before  the  moon  rose,  a  man  of  the  Guardia  Civil 
rode  across  hills  sweetened  by  the  rain,  and  came 
in  a  roundabout  way  to  the  ancient  wild  olive  at  the 
portal  of  the  barranca  of  the  Gitanos.  Here  he  dis- 
mounted and  waited  like  one  keeping  a  tryst,  smok- 
ing innumerable  cigarettes  and  kicking  up  the  soft 
loam  impatiently.  He  was  Miguel  Alvarado. 

At  length  and  on  the  sudden,  he  heard  sounds  as 
of  some  one  coming  toward  him  down  the  canyon 
through  the  dripping  leaves.  He  hearkened  a  mo- 
ment, then  lifted  his  voice  in  a  rich  but  gentle  bari- 
tone: 

"Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran : 
God  send  the  Gypsy  lassie  here, 
And  not  the  Gypsy  man." 

She  came  to  him  from  out  the  trees,  the  wench 
Paquita.  She  was  clad  in  a  dress  of  vermilions  and 
yellows,  those  vermilions  and  yellows  now  bedusked 
by  the  soft  light  of  the  night.  In  her  hair  was 
wound  a  green  scarf.  And,  as  she  approached,  she 
sang  the  answering  quatrain: 

"At  midnight,   when  the  moon  began 

To  show  her  silver  flame,  v 

There  came  to  him  no  Gypsy  man, 
The  Gypsy  lassie  came." 


148  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Impulsively  he  ran  to  meet  her.  They  were  like 
shadows  that  merged  together  and  became  one. 
They  trembled,  they  swayed;  they  swayed  as  the 
wild  olive  swayed  in  the  wind  of  the  night.  They 
kissed  long  and  ardently.  Then  she  drew  herself 
away,  throwing  her  head  back  and  holding  him  off 
with  arms  rigidly  extended. 

"Ah,  Miguel,  my  caballero  of  the  impetuous  lips," 
she  sighed,  "I  could  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul,  but  for  one  little  thing!  " 

"Carajo!  what  is  that?  "  he  asked,  his  voice  sharp 
with  anxiety  and  eagerness.  "Have  I  not  always 
been  the  most  adoring  and  tender  of  lovers — aye, 
and  the  most  voracious  and  headlong,  too?  Did  I 
not  hurry  pellmell  for  this  meeting,  the  moment 
you  sent  word  to  me  by  that  Gypsy  brat?  What 
have  I  done  to  make  you  think  dismally  of  me? 
How  have  I  displeased  you?  Tell  me;  I  burn  to 
know!" 

She  suddenly  drew  herself  to  him  and  clung  there 
once  again,  kissing  his  lips  and  fondling  his  head 
with  her  hands.  He  shivered  in  every  limb.  He 
moaned  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  and  pressed  her  to 
him  with  such  impetuosity  and  gusto  that  it  seemed 
as  if  his  arms  would  break  her  body  in  two. 

Beneath  the  ardor  of  his  greedy  embrace,  the 
girl  Paquita  shuddered  and  went  very  pale  in  the 
gloom.  A  scream  rose  in  her  throat  but  she  smoth- 
ered it,  unborn.  Across  her  shoulders,  under  her 
gaudy  gown,  were  red  raw  furrows  where  her 
father's  greenhide  had  bitten  and  seared  her.  But 
she  made  no  outcry,  she  gave  no  sign,  though  she 
wa§  as  one  who  has  been  tortured  horribly  and  then 


THE  WOLF-CUB  149 

given  up  to  the  iron  caresses  of  a  terrible,  crushing 
machine. 

His  arms  relaxed  somewhat  after  a  little,  and 
she  lay  upon  his  neck  and  whispered: 

"It  is  not  what  you  have  done;  you  were  always 
the  perfect  lover.  It  is  what  you  are.  You  are  a 
policeman,  one  of  those  feared  and  hated  and  de- 
spised by  my  clan.  I  feel  shame  in  loving  a  man  of 
the  Guardia  Civil;  there  is  something  in  my  Gypsy 
blood  that  makes  me  feel  that  shame.  It  is  the 
uniform  you  wear,  the  things  that  it  symbolizes." 

"We  Guardias  Civiles  are  the  bravest  of  Span- 
iards. We  are  most  brave  and  mettlesome  men, 
every  one !  "  returned  the  young  policeman  slowly, 
seeking  to  marshal  his  arguments  in  order.  "Most 
Spanish  girls  are  quick  to  love  us  if  only  because 
of  our  smart  uniforms  and  gallantry  and  daring. 
And  it  is  as  natural  for  me  to  be  a  policeman  as  it 
is  for  you  to  be  a  Gitana.  My  father  is  a  sergeant 
of  the  police;  he  has  been  in  the  Guardia  Civil  for 
thirty  years.  And  all  my  male  ancestors  have  been 
Guardias  Civiles  back  to  the  long-ago,  when  they 
were  bandoleros  and  outlaws  who  grew  tired  of  be- 
ing hunted  and  became  Miquelets." 

"But  if  you  were  more  like  your  ancestors,  the 
Miquelets — ah,  then  I  could  love  you  body  and 
soul!  "  breathed  the  girl  Paquita.  And  she  went  on 
very  softly: 

"Last  night,  there  came  to  our  camp  in  the  bar- 
ranca an  outlaw,  a  salteador  de  camino.  He  was 
strong,  he  was  magnificently  strong,  and  he  had  a 
long  absolute  jaw  and  bold,  proud,  imperious  eyes. 
About  him,  like  an  odor,  hung  the  reek  of  the 


1 50  THE  WOLF-CUB 

imposing  and  cruel  and  terrible  things  he  had  done. 

"It  is  natural  for  us  Gitanas  to  love  an  outlaw; 
we  Gitanas  are  outlaws  to  the  core,  ourselves. 
And  he  was  as  arrogant  as  a  Bourbon  prince,  or  a 
sheik  of  Barbary,  or  an  Andalusian  sun  on  a  noon- 
day; but  he  looked  at  me  only  with  the  eyes  of 
contempt,  granite  eyes.  I  made  the  fool  of  my- 
self by  flinging  my  body  and  soul  at  his  feet. 
He—" 

"Cascaras!  what  was  his  name?"  cried  Miguel 
Alvarado  sharply.  It  was  as  though  a  knife  had 
been  plunged  into  his  side  and  twisted  this  way  and 
that. 

"He  was  the  glorious  bandolero,  Jacinto  Ques- 
ada !  " 

"Jacinto  Quesada!  That  swollen  toad,  that 
strutting  mountebank  in  rags  and  tinsel,  that  up- 
start, the  zascandil !  For  los  Clavos  de  Cristo ! 
and  you  flung  yourself  at  him?  " 

"But  he  is  altogether  the  arrogant  and  brave  man, 
altogether  the  savage  and  magnificent  one!  " 

"Carjo!  he  is  only  a  mountaineer's  brat.  We 
grew  up  on  opposite  slopes  of  the  same  mountain  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada.  His  clodhopper  of  a  father 
sold  firewood  to  the  sweet  mother  of  me!  He  is 
uneducated ;  has  no  resource  or  originality.  And 
he  lacks  entrails  as  well  as  brains!  I  am  more 
varonil,  I  tell  you ;  more  impetuous  with  headlong 
daring  than  he.  Were  there  a  man  such  as  Miguel 
Alvarado  in  the  shoes  of  Jacinto  Quesada,  there 
would  be  things  done,  I  wot !  But  I  will  show  you 
what  is  what.  I — " 

"Yes,  yes,  you  will  show  me — how,  when  ?  " 


THE  WOLF-CUB  151 

But  to  the  ears  of  Miguel  Alvarado  the  wind  had 
borne  sound  of  the  to-do  raised  by  an  approaching 
horse.  He  hearkened  to  that  pounding  and  clat- 
tering, looking  down  the  sweep  of  foothills  below 
the  barranca.  He  saw  nothing  just  at  once.  But 
the  sounds  became  more  distinct,  drew  nearer. 
Those  sounds  leaped  toward  them  in  great  panther 
leaps. 

Suddenly  a  man  on  horseback  came  bounding 
over  the  hogback  of  a  hill  right  below.  He  wore 
the  tight  uniform  and  the  businesslike  look  of  a  man 
of  the  Guardia  Civil.  His  policeman's  three-cor- 
nered hat  of  shiny  leather  shimmered  in  the  light  of 
the  newly  risen  moon.  With  the  velocity  and  aban- 
don of  a  French  dragoon,  he  galloped  full  tilt  up  to- 
ward the  barranca.  And  as  he  came,  he  shouted: 

"Hola,  Miguelillo!" 

"It  is  my  officer,  my  parent !  "  whispered  the 
young  policeman,  and  he  swore  softly  in  disappoint- 
ment. Then,  with  the  absolute  obedience  of  only 
a  Spanish  son,  he  shouted  back :  "Here  I  am,  Don 
Esteban,  my  father!  What  do  you  want  of 
me?" 

The  sergeant  of  police  came  up  like  a  driving 
pillar  of  sand  and  dismounted  while  his  horse  was 
in  full  charge.  Swinging  his  quirta,  he  advanced 
swiftly  upon  the  pair.  There  was  in  him  no  sign 
of  the  weakness  of  age.  He  had  a  short,  knife- 
sharp  white  beard,  and  a  face  as  lean  and  haughty 
as  a  griffon  vulture's.  From  his  tricorn  hat  still 
hung  down,  behind  his  head,  a  sun  shield  of  white 
linen  cloth. 

"Come  away  with  me !  "  he  ordered  peremptorily. 


152  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"I  have  word  that  Jacinto  Quesada  is  in  the  moun- 
tains near  the  Pass  of  Despenaperros.  While 
there's  work  to  do  for  Spanish  policemen,  I'll  not 
have  you  playing  the  bear  for  the  entertainment 
of  any  senorita  in  Spain,  no  matter  how  fine  the 
moon !  " 

He  peered  into  the  soft  shade  beneath  the  wild 
olive. 

"Aha,  the  maiden  is  with  you,  I  see!  But,  zut! 
this  is  bad.  She  and  you  alone  in  this  abandoned 
glen — has  the  girl  no  thought  for  what  the  people 
of  her  village  will  say  of  her?  " 

"The  girl  is  a  Gitana !  "  spoke  up  Paquita  proudly. 

"A  Gitana!  Blood  of  Christ!  my  son  keeping 
tryst  with  a  Gitana!  Have  you  no  respect  for 
your  Christian  mother,  you  ungrateful  whelp? 
Have  you  no  pride  in  your  policeman  father  and  in 
your  ancestors  that  have  been  keepers  of  the  peace 
of  Spain  for  a  hundred  years?  Have  you  no 
thought  of  the  uniform  you  wear?" 

The  father  was  severely  angry. 

"This  is  disgraceful,  this  is  vile,  Alvarado,  my 
son !  A  Gitana,  eh !  Come  away  with  me,  at  once. 
Come  away,  and  no  more  words  with  this  wanton 
Gypsy  wench,  or  I  shall  lay  my  quirta  across  your 
back ! " 

The  imperious  old  man  turned  on  his  heel,  strode 
away,  and  leaped  with  one  lithe  strong  spring  upon 
his  horse's  back.  Miguel  Alvarado  turned  from 
the  girl  and  moved  reluctantly  toward  his  own 
horse.  He  feared  his  father  too  much  to  disobey 
him.  He  feared  his  father  as  he  feared  neither 
God  nor  the  Devil.  He  knew  his  father  would 


THE  WOLF-CUB  153 

beat  him  without  qualm  or  ruth  at  the  first  word 
or  look  of  defiance  or  rebellion. 

Man-grown  though  he  was,  he  could  prove  to  you 
an  acquaintance  with  his  father's  rawhide  quirta  by 
merely  baring  his  young  body  to  the  waist.  Span- 
ish family  life  is  the  most  solid  and  wholesome  thing 
about  Spain.  Spanish  sons  and  daughters  respect 
and  revere  those  who  gave  them  life;  they  have 
been  taught  respect  and  reverence  at  the  ends  of 
whips.  In  the  same  manner,  Jehovah  made  the 
Israelites  love  him ;  and  who,  through  all  the  years 
of  the  world,  have  fceen  more  faithful  to  God  than 
the  stern  race  of  Jews? 

"I  will  be  here,  at  this  wild  olive,  ere  the  waning 
of  three  nights.  At  midnight  of  the  third  night, 
meet  me,  Paquita,  virgin  of  my  soul !  "  whispered 
Miguel  Alvarado,  bending  down  from  the  saddle. 

"You  will  tell  me  then  what  you  will  do?  "  she 
whispered  in  return.  "You  will  tell  me  then,  will 
you  not,  my  caballero  of  the  impetuous  lips  and  the 
great  courage?  I  will  remain  chaste  as  gold,  pure 
as  a  sacrament,  for  you,  caballerete!  " 

"I  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am  not  unworthy  of 
your  great  love,  my  little  one.  This  Jacinto 
Quesada — za !  " 

He  thundered  away  after  his  proud  and  haughty 
parent. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

UP  from  the  misty  profundities  of  the  Llanos  de 
Jaen  climbed,  like  slow  obstinate  flies,  the  nine  fan- 
tastic cabalgadores  of  Manuel  Morales.  Also,  their 
guide,  Aguilino.  They  were  all  afoot.  With 
them,  up  the  altitudes  of  the  pass,  yearned  seven 
pack  mules,  heavy  and  swollen  with  great  panniers 
of  provisions. 

The  nine  Quixotes  and  their  scarred  wolf  of  a 
guide  had  put  two  weeks  of  frugal  living  and  heart- 
breaking toil  between  them  and  the  barranca  of 
Pepe  Flammenca  and  his  unwashed  Gypsy  clan. 
Right  off,  they  had  lost  one  horse  and  then  another. 
The  beasts  had  taken  headers  off  mountainsides. 
They  had  consulted  with  their  guide,  the  man 
Aguilino.  He  gave  them  to  understand  that  horses 
were  considered  of  very  little  worth  in  both  the 
Sierra  Morena  and  the  Sierra  Nevada.  For  a  car- 
avan of  asses,  they  succeeded  in  bartering  their 
horses  with  the  arrieros,  or  muleteers,  going  down. 

Now,  after  two  weeks,  they  had  at  last  won 
through  the  rolling  torrent  of  mountains  called  the 
Sierra  Morena.  They  were  inching  themselves  up 
the  long  perpendicular  miles  of  the  windy  gorge  of 
the  Llanos  de  Jaen. 

The  Llanos  de  Jaen  is  very  narrow.  One  would 
think  one  could  hurl  a  peseta  across  it,  until  one 
tried.  Were  it  not  for  the  chasmy  gap  of  the 
Llanos  de  Jaen,  the  Sierra  Morena  and  the  Sierra 


THE  WOLF-CUB  155 

Nevada  would  be  one  tremendous  chain  of  moun- 
tains. 

Halfway  up,  a  mule  stumbled  in  turning  the  flank 
of  a  precipice  and  took  the  leap,  screaming  like  a 
soul  thrown  headlong  to  Hell.  The  nine  Quixotes 
clung  to  the  rock  wall  and  felt  sick  to  their  stomachs. 
The  mule  seemed  falling  for  a  thousand  years. 
They  did  not  dare  to  look  down  and  see  it  strike. 
The  mule  was  the  one  the  guide  Aguilino  had  been 
leading.  Perhaps  a  shove  from  him  had  sent  it 
on  its  way  to  death.  Again,  perhaps  not. 

High  above,  upon  the  top  of  a  glassy  and  steep 
risco  or  overhanging  rock,  a  man  had  moored  him- 
self with  a  short  rope  of  horsehide.  He  was 
Jacinto  Quesada.  But  he  did  not  look  the  ban- 
dolero of  the  plains.  Garbed  as  he  was  in  alpa- 
gartas  or  rope  sandals,  the  better  to  grip  the  precip- 
itous ascents,  and  in  sheepskin  zamarra  and  long 
shawl  as  protection  against  the  cold,  he  looked  the 
true  mountaineer. 

With  the  vigilant  application  of  an  eagle  eying 
its  meat  circling  all  unaware  beneath  its  lofty 
eyrie,  Quesada  had  been  watching  the  men  climb 
laboriously  up  the  sheer  of  the  pass.  Now,  as  the 
mule  fell  to  its  magnificent  death,  he  nodded  his  head 
in  approbation  and  remarked  to  himself: 

"Rafael  Perez  has  finally  set  to  work,  I  see! 
That  is  the  first  poor  mule.  But  the  whole  seven 
must  be  disposed  of,  before  Morales  and  his  men 
journey  far  through  the  Sierra  Nevada." 

The  nine  Quixotes  did  not  know  Quesada  was 
perched  there,  far  above  them.  Long  ere  they 
crawled  up  to  the  overhanging  rock,  he  had  dis- 


156  THE  WOLF-CUB 

appeared  completely.  Yet  they  felt  sure  that  some- 
where beyond,  among  the  snowy  crags  and  moaning 
canyons  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  Quesada  was  pursu- 
ing his  way  with  the  girl  Felicidad. 

A  day  prior,  just  before  leaping  the  Llanos  de 
Jaen  and  coming  out  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  they  had 
stumbled,  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills,  upon  a  mud  choza 
that  had  the  gloomy  aspects  of  a  hiding  place  for 
bandoleros  and  moonshiners.  The  peasant  and  his 
wife  who  lived  in  the  hut  had  said  no  to  all  their 
questions.  No,  they  had  not  seen  Jacinto  Quesada. 
No,  they  never  had  heard  of  him,  they  lived  so  far 
away  in  the  mountains,  senores.  Don  Jesu,  they 
would  not  know  him  from  the  great  Morales  him- 
self! 

But  their  half-witted  son,  a  tall,  shock -headed, 
ungainly  lad,  was  struck  by  the  appearance  of  the 
cavalcade  and  especially  by  the  colorful,  if  oddly  as- 
sorted trapping  of  Manuel  Morales.  Poor  lad,  he 
had  never  before  seen  such  glorious  caballeros. 

As  the  disheartened  men  had  made  to  lead  on 
their  mules,  he  had  crept  to  the  offside  of  Morales' 
beast  and  there,  hidden  from  the  view  of  his  father, 
he  had  engaged  in  a  quick,  fearful  pantomime. 

"What  is  it?  "  queried  Morales. 

Vehemently  the  feeble-minded  lad  had  pointed  on 
ahead,  on  toward  the  Llanos  de  Jaen  and  the  Sierra 
Nevada  beyond. 

"He  has  gone  that  way!"  he  whispered.  "Si, 
Jacinto  Quesada  himself  and  a  girl  white  as  the 
snows  that  fall  in  these  hills.  He  passed  here  two 
days  since.  Into  the  Nevadas,  into  the  Nevadas,  he 
has  gone,  senor  don !  " 


THE  WOLF-CUB  157 

Morales  believed  him,  believed  him  even  more  im- 
plicitly than  if  his  mind  had  been  sound.  Despite 
the  dubious  looks  and  shakes  of  the  head  upon  the 
part  of  the  guide  Aguilino,  all  the  cabalgadores 
agreed  that  the  poor  feeble-minded  fellow  would 
be  incapable  of  perpetrating  a  deception.  With  en- 
ergy and  ardor  they  had  pressed  on. 

Now,  as  they  won  to  the  bare-fanged  wind- 
shrieking  altitudes  of  the  pass,  Morales  and  his 
men  felt  dizzy ;  their  stomachs  churned,  their  heads 
were  like  gas-filled  balloons.  Sheerly  below  them 
dropped  the  narrow,  profound  gutter  of  the  Llanos 
de  Jaen.  It  seemed  composed  of  three  parts  rock, 
standing  on  end,  and  seven  parts  air,  giddying 
around  in  a  stew..  They  drew  their  eyes  away. 
They  felt  as  if  they  would  like  to  leave  off  clinging 
by  their  finger  nails  and  slip  down  into  the  abysmal 
void. 

They  sank  down  upon  the  uneven  spaces  of  a 
granite  spire  that  was  as  a  needle  for  slimness. 
Into  the  north  rolled  away,  like  a  gray  sea  of  mist, 
the  massive  ramifying  Sierra  Morena.  To  the 
south  and  ahead  bulked  up,  even  more  imposing  of 
port,  the  lofty  altitudes  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  It 
was  like  some  long  and  magnificent  staircase,  its 
lower  steps  of  mica  schist  overgrown  with  gum 
cistus,  rhododendron,  and  broom,  its  top  a  dazzling 
flow  of  snow.  Crags  and  peaks,  jungled  windy 
cuts,  rock-bound  alpine  lakes,  creamy  knobs,  and 
sharp  obelisks  saw-edged  the  sublime  blue  like  the 
teeth  of  some  titanic  rake.  The  white  melting 
heads  of  old  Muley  Hassan  and  the  Picacho  de  la 
Veleta  looked  but  a  jump  away,  and  yet  with  the 


158  THE  WOLF-CUB 

mighty  distance,  the  pink  and  purple  of  rhododen- 
dron, the  white  and  pink  of  trailing  arbutus  and 
the  green  of  gum  cistus  and  broom  seemed  all  of 
the  same  hazy  blueness.  It  was  a  stupendous,  over- 
powering jumble  of  cathedral  mountains,  colossal 
mountains,  awful  mountains. 

"The  Sierra  Nevada  has  a  scowling  look,"  re- 
marked Manuel  Morales.  "We  may  thank  the  good 
Dios  humbly  and  gratefully,  if  we  come  triumphant 
through  those  solitudes  and  steeps." 

"We  must  not  lose  another  mule,"  said  Jacques 
Ferou.  "There  are  no  red  deer  in  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  nor  wild  boar,  nor  even  mongoose.  Is  it 
not  so?  The  panniers  of  provisions  are  our  only 
salvation." 

"And  the  mules  may  be  eaten,  too,  when  we're 
hungry  enough,"  added  Carson  grimly.  "I've  eaten 
worse  meat  in  my  day  in  Death  Valley,  California." 

Aguilino  the  guide  heard  the  remarks  without  a 
quiver  of  his  scarred  eye. 

Late  that  afternoon,  John  Fremont  Carson  halted 
his  mule  on  the  eyebrow  of  a  cliff  and  the  caravan 
crowded  together  at  imminent  risk  of  one  or  more 
going  overside.  His  beast  had  gone  suddenly  lame, 
Carson  said.  It  was  standing  on  three  legs,  gray 
head  drooping,  and  attempting  every  little  while  to 
put  down  its  fourth  leg. 

"Carajo !  The  cattle  must  be  shot !  "  said  the 
guide  Aguilino  at  first  glance.  "The  contents  of 
its  panniers  can  be  apportioned  among  the  other 
mules." 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  Carson  shortly.  "We 
can't  afford  to  lose  a  single  mule." 


THE  WOLF-CUB  159 

"You  are  right,  monsenor,"  agreed  Jacques 
Ferou.  "In  the  Sierra  Morena,  the  cabanas  of  the 
mountaineers  were  far  between  and  few,  and  we 
succeeded  in  keeping  our  strength  only  by  killing  our 
meat  as  we  went.  Here,  this  Sierra  Nevada  seems 
as  empty  of  men  and  wild  meat  as  the  deserts  of 
French  Algiers.  We  must  save  all  our  panniers,  all 
our  mules." 

"Let  me  see  the  lame  foot!"  spoke  up  Manuel 
Morales  suddenly.  As  are  most  bullfighters,  Mo- 
rales was  wise  in  horseflesh  and  its  kindred  species. 
He  crouched,  took  the  hoof  between  his  knees  and 
examined  it  carefully.  All  at  once  his  head  snapped 
up. 

"You  lagarto,  you  lizard,  you  sly  trick  one !  " 
he  shouted  at  the  guide.  "What  Gypsy  trick  is 
this?" 

He  showed  the  mule's  hoof  to  the  others. 
Slightly  protruding  from  the  inside  of  that  hoof 
was  the  head  of  a  nail.  It  had  been  driven  straight 
into  the  quick. 

"Come,  you  flea !  "  commanded  Morales.  "Get 
me  a  pair  of  pincers,  a  hammer  with  a  claw — any- 
thing which  will  grip  this  nail  and  help  to  draw  it 
out." 

The  guide,  glad  enough  to  hide  his  discomfiture, 
hurried  away.  But  in  a  moment  he  returned  with 
empty  hands. 

"Senor,  we  have  no  pincers,  pliers,  hammer — 
nothing  of  the  kind!  " 

The  American  blurted  out  an  oath. 

"Think  you  can  stump  us,  eh?"  he  said  collect- 
edly in  English.  And  he  borrowed  the  revolver  of 


i<5o  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Jacques  Ferou,  broke  it,  and  emptied  its  six  cham- 
bers. 

"My  automatic  hasn't  the  leverage  of  your  gun," 
he  remarked  to  the  Frenchman  in  explanation. 

With  the  steel  finger  guard  of  the  revolver  he 
sought,  as  he  spoke,  to  get  a  grip  on  the  head  of 
the  nail.  But  the  nail  had  been  driven  in  so  far 
that  its  head  just  barely  protruded  from  the  surface 
of  the  hoof.  There  was  no  room  beneath  the  nail- 
head  for  the  slim  steel  of  the  ringer  guard. 

Manuel  Morales  shouldered  him  away.  Taking 
the  hoof  again  between  his  knees,  he  dug  at  the 
head  of  the  nail  with  his  bare  ringers.  It  seemed 
a  preposterous  thing  to  do,  but  he  worked  with  a 
gnawing  persistency.  The  mule  shivered  in  every 
member,  and  made  hoarse,  almost  human  sounds 
of  pain.  Suddenly  it  screamed.  Morales,  his 
round  face  dark  with  blood  and  shiny  with  sweat, 
his  body  hunched  all  in  a  knot,  slowly  drew  out  the 
nail  between  the  vise  of  two  strong  bullfighter's 
fingers ! 

"Now  we  will  go  on,"-  said  Carson. 

"And  no  more  of  your  Gypsy  tricks,  you 
lagarto !  "  Morales  warned  the  guide. 

Aguilino  ignored  the  threat. 

"The  hole  is  spurting  black  blood,"  he  said. 
"Let  me  make  a  poultice  to  stop  the  bleeding." 

He  gathered  a  handful  of  the  stick  leaves  of  a 
gum  cistus  which  grew  in  the  crevices  of  the  cliff 
wall,  chewed  them  in  his  mouth,  then  spit  the  cud 
into  his  palm  and  pressed  it  over  the  ragged  hole 
left  by  the  nail  in  the  mule's  hoof. 

Yet,   for  all  the  appearance  of  doing  good,  he 


THE  WOLF-CUB  161 

seemed  to  handle  the  painful  leg  with  unwarranted 
brutality.  The  mule,  snorting  in  agony  and  anger, 
recoiled  sharply  from  him  toward  the  brink  of  the 
path.  Before  the  others  could  realize  that  any- 
thing untoward  was  in  motion,  before  ever  they 
could  leap  forward  to  save  the  beast,  he  pressed 
his  head  and  shoulders  against  the  burdened  animal 
and  it  tottered  on  the  crumbling  edge  of  the  cliff, 
then  went  over,  turning  round  and  round  like  an 
empty  wine  cask,  banging  its  panniers  against  the 
rock  faces,  kicking  the  air  with  frail  legs,  and 
screaming  all  the  while  frightfully. 

Manuel  Morales  caught  the  guide  as  he  almost 
followed  into  the  void.  With  his  two  strong  arms, 
the  matador  lifted  him  bodily  into  the  air  and  held 
him  over  the  miles  of  emptiness. 

"You  snake  in  the  grass !  "  he  swore.  "We  will 
see  now  with  how  much  grace  you  take  the  leap 
yourself !  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  guide  did  not  squirm.  He  could  not  squirm. 
He  was  stiff  with  terror  of  the  misty  abysmal  depths 
below.  Yet,  somehow,  he  managed  to  stutter: 

"Heart  of  God,  senor,  don't !  You  will  lose  your- 
selves— in  these  savage  mountains — without  me  to 
guide  you!  You  will  all  starve  to  death!  Maes- 
tro, for  the  love  of  Mary  the  Pitiful,  don't,  don't!  " 

There  was  something  of  truth  in  what  the  guide 
said.  Morales  put  him  back  upon  the  path.  But 
he  said  with  bitterness  and  brooding  menace,  "We 
will  lose  no  more  mules.  You  will  see  to  that,  eh, 
my  trustworthy  man  ?  " 

Aguilino  worked  more  cleverly  after  that. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  following  night,  Turiddu,  the 
mule  led  by  Morales  himself,  went  over  a  cliff,  al- 
most dragging  the  matador  along.  There  was  no 
use  blaming  the  guide,  Aguilino.  He  had  not  been 
near  the  doomed  ass  during  the  long  morning  and 
the  longer  afternoon. 

Besides,  twenty  times  that  day  the  beast  had  come 
within  an  ace  of  its  eventual  finis.  Since  dawn,  it 
had  conducted  itself  in  a  contrary  and  restive  man- 
ner ;  it  had  shied  without  seeming  cause,  reared  and 
plunged  forward  in  sudden  frights,  caracoled  and 
beat  the  path  with  its  hoofs,  and  whinnied,  snorted, 
and  shaken  its  head  as  though  unaccountably  irri- 
tated. It  seemed  a  mule  spirited  and  unrestrain- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  163 

ably  stimulated  by  an  overfeeding  of  oats;  a  mule 
intoxicated,  possessed  of  a  demon! 

What  had  befallen  Turiddu  in  the  shadowy  dark- 
ness of  the  prior  night,  Dios  sabe !  Yet  the  Gypsies 
have  a  jockey  trick  which  might  explain  the  whole 
mystery.  When  selling  or  bartering  mules  and  bor- 
ricos,  they  drop  a  tiny  nodule  of  quicksilver  into  the 
long  ears  of  the  beasts. 

Have  you  ever  suffered  a  drop  of  water  in  the 
ear  and  been  unable  to  move  a  hand  to  flick  it  out? 
The  nodule  of  quicksilver  is  as  irritating  as  that. 
It  is  wet  and  never  still.  It  frets  the  mules  and 
causes  them  to  liven  up  their  paces  and  seem  more 
mettlesome. 

Morales  and  his  cabalgadores  watched  the  guide 
with  deep  but  indefensible  suspicion.  Vexedly  they 
wondered  and  worried.  Finally,  in  the  next  few 
days,  they  were  provoked  into  savage  anger  when 
three  more  mules  took  it  upon  themselves  to  act  un- 
conventionally, and  then  die  in  fits,  one,  two,  three. 

These  mules  were  thoughtful  and  discreet  to  a 
degree.  They  did  not  leap,  screaming,  off  the  walls 
of  the  mountains.  They  expired  in  their  tracks  and 
therefore  saved  to  the  nine  Quixotes  the  panniers 
strapped  over  their  spines. 

Morales  and  his  men  became,  all  at  once,  coldly 
furious.  The  third  mule  in  dying,  coughed  up  a 
round,  compactly  pressed  ball  of  pointed  black- 
green  leaves.  Some  one  in  the  company  had  forced 
handfuls  of  oleander  leaves  down  the  throats  of 
the  three  mules ! 

Now,  the  leaves  of  the  oleander  are  extremely 
poisonous  to  man  and  beast.  Horses  and  kindred 


164  THE  WOLF-CUB 

cattle  have  an  instinct  which  warns  them  against 
eating  the  shrub.  But  man  who  has  no  strong  in- 
stincts, often  dies  poisoned  by  the  oleander's  juices. 
It  is  related  that  several  British  soldiers  during  the 
Peninsular  War  cut  and  peeled  some  oleander 
branches  to  use  as  skewers  for  roasting  meat  over 
the  campfires.  Of  the  twelve  men  who  ate  that 
meat,  seven  died. 

Even  a  creature  as  asinine  as  an  ass  knows  enough 
to  avoid  the  pointed  black-green  leaves.  Most 
mules  would  rather  starve  than  even  smell  of  the 
plant.  Yet,  during  the  nights  that  preceded  their 
untimely  taking-off,  some  one  in  the  company  had 
forced  handfuls  of  the  poisonous  leaves  down  the 
throats  of  the  three  mules. 

For  hours  before  the  death,  each  mule  had 
coughed.  Also,  each  mule  had  simpered,  simpered 
like  a  convent  girl.  Simpered  is  a  strange  word 
to  use  in  such  a  case,  but  it  describes  exactly  the 
way  the  mules  had  moved  and  worked  their  lips  in 
a  try  to  rid  their  stomachs  of  the  deadly  leaves. 

Of  the  whole  caravan  of  seven  mules  that  had 
trotted  so  bravely  out,  there  was  left  now  but  one 
sorely  burdened  ass.  The  nine  cabalgadores 
weighted  the  surviving  beast  with  some  of  the  provi- 
sions from  the  backs  of  the  three  poisoned  mules; 
they  encumbered  their  own  shoulders  with  the  rest; 
then  they  continued  doggedly  on,  thinking  to  kill 
the  last  mule  for  meat,  once  the  provisions  upon 
their  backs  and  in  the  panniers  were  completely 
exhausted. 

That  night  they  bivouacked  in  a  stony  and  savage 
ravine,  and  built  two  small  fires,  and  hugged  them 


THE  WOLF-CUB  165 

close.  It  was  very  cold.  An  icy  mountain  fog  or 
nebllna  had  crept  down  like  a  clammy  gray  ghost 
from  the  windy  passes  and  frozen  snowfields  far 
above.  One  could  not  see  much  farther  before  one 
through  the  thick  mist  than  the  nose  upon  one's 
face. 

They  wrapped  their  ponchos  about  them  and 
shivered  in  the  damp.  A  cavern  of  snarling  wind- 
echoes  and  of  eddying,  dark  shapes  was  the  steep 
ravine.  Down  the  length  of  it,  the  fog  marched 
like  an  endless  caravan  of  ghostly,  silent,  gray  mules. 
The  two  fires,  robust  enough  and  certainly  well  at- 
tended, seemed  as  pale  and  anaemic  and  cold  as 
two  incandescents  in  the  black  heart  of  a  mine. 

Without  the  fling  of  the  twin  fires,  a  man  in 
sheepskin  zamarra,  alpagartas  and  voluminous 
mountaineer's  shawl  sat  cross-legged  on  a  large 
boulder  and  watched  the  men  bulk  before  the  flames, 
and  move  back  and  forth,  and  lie  down,  keeping 
close  together  for  warmth.  He  did  not  seem  to 
feel  the  icy  chill  of  the  fog;  he  did  not  seem  to 
fear  discovery.  And  yet,  should  the  fires  leap  up 
and  burn  voraciously  because  of  some  knot  braided 
with  pitch,  he  would  be  disclosed  most  surely  to  the 
men  about  the  flames. 

For  days,  however,  he  had  been  with  them  and 
never  once  had  chance  betrayed  him  to  the  men  he 
watched.  He  had  clung  to  a  risco  above  them 
when  they  had  climbed  like  slow  obstinate  flies  out 
of  the  profundities  of  the  Llanos  de  Jaen  and 
plunged  into  the  gargantas  and  barrancas  of  the 
desolate  Sierra  Nevada.  He  had  hung  upon  their 
flank  as  a  wolf  hangs  upon  the  flank  of  a  gang  of 


166  THE  WOLF-CUB 

deer;  as  a  podenco,  or  hunting  dog,  hangs  upon 
the  flank  of  a  sounder  of  wild  boar.  While  they 
ate,  he  had  lingered  near  and,  with  a  rare  and 
pensive  curiosity,  had  watched  them  slowly  but 
surely  exhaust  the  linings  of  their  mules'  pan- 
niers. 

Suddenly,  from  the  boulder  on  which  he  sat  as 
quietly  as  another  rock,  he  lifted  up  his  voice  in  a 
long,  thin,  bestial  ululation.  Such  a  somber  and  un- 
earthly sound  is  made  only  by  the  Spanish  she-wolf 
when,  standing  above  the  den  of  its  brood,  it  gives 
tongue  to  a  thousand  old  memories  and  desires. 

One  of  the  recumbent  figures  about  the  fires  lifted 
himself  upon  an  elbow  and,  his  face  sharp,  heark- 
ened intently.  Again,  from  the  boulder,  uprose  the 
steely  cry,  mournful  as  a  wail  sent  spearing  aloft 
from  Purgatory.  From  his  elbow,  Aguilino  the 
guide  lifted  himself  to  his  feet. 

"When  you  hear  the  she-wolf  give  tongue,"  he 
answered  to  the  inquiring  looks  of  the  others,  "you 
may  be  sure  that  its  den  and  runways  are  near. 
The  young  fat  cubs  make  fairly  good  meat.  I  will 
go  out  into  the  darkness,  hearkening  to  the  cries  of 
the  bitch,  and  if  I  am  lucky,  I  may  locate  the  brood 
for  you.  God  willing,  we  will  have  an  oteo,  a  wolf- 
drive,  at  dawn  to-morrow !  " 

He  walked  out  of  the  radius  of  the  firelight  and 
went  stumbling  through  the  shadowy  gloom.  As 
he  brushed  through  the  white  buckthorn,  arbutus, 
and  holly  which  sprouted  in  the  more  generous  soil 
between  the  boulders,  those  about  the  fires  could 
hear  a  swishing  and  snapping,  and  a  regular-spaced 
crackling  from  the  rich  mould  under  his  walking 


THE  WOLF-CUB  167 

feet.  Then  all  crackling  and  rustling  ceased,  and 
the  night  was  darkly  still. 

Aguilino  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  boulder.  The 
man  in  the  mountaineer's  shawl  dropped  down  beside 
him. 

"Rafael  Perez,"  he  said,  "to-morrow  you  must 
murder  the  last  mule !  " 

"But,  Don  Jacinto,  I  dare  not!  Three  times 
already  have  they  threatened  my  life,  and  they  re- 
gard me  forever  with  the  most  savagfe  of  looks. 
The  others  I  do  not  fear  so  much,  but  that  magnifi- 
cent one — I  tell  you  I  fear  Morales  so  that  I  shud- 
der at  each  of  his  glances.  The  man  looks  murder. 
Believe  me,  Don  Jacinto,  he  would  shoot  me  like  a 
dog  should  I  make  but  one  more  move !  " 

"Then  I  must  finish  that  last  mule  myself.  To- 
morrow, above  the  Pass  of  the  Blessed  Trinity, 
where  the  three  roads  converge  into  one,  I  will  send 
down  a  boulder  to  crush  out  its  life." 

"Ah,  that  is  better,  senor  don!  They  cannot 
blame  me  if  a  little  rock  falls  from  the  heights,  while 
I  walk  with  them  through  the  gap.  But  how  much 
longer  must  I  endure  their  scowling  looks,  maestro? 
My  life  is  not  worth  a  peseta  while  I  linger  with 
that  company.  " 

"They  continue  to  eat,  do  they  not  ?  "  said  Que- 
sada  significantly. 

"Si,  but  it's  no  fault  of  mine.  Don  Jacinto,  how 
could  I  dare  send  more  than  three  mules  toppling 
off  the  mountain  walls?  You  yourself,  maestro, 
told  me  to  resort  to  the  oleander  leaves.  Remem- 
ber, it  was  in  that  little  talk  behind  the  granite  crag? 
But  the  oleander  leaves  did  not  get  rid  of  the  pan- 


168  THE  WOLF-CUB 

niers  of  the  three  poisoned  beasts.  These  Quixotes 
fill  themselves  from  those  panniers  without  stint, 
especially  the  Frenchman.  They  will  continue  to 
eat  for  a  few  days — " 

"Hola,  the  Frenchman  has  an  appetite,  eh?  " 

"Seguramente,  si !  But  when  shall  I  quit  the  dis- 
tasteful presence  of  that  terrible  Morales?  " 

"To-morrow  at  dusk,  if  you  will  have  it." 

"A  thousand  thanks!  But  what  excuses  shall  I 
give,  Don  Jacinto  ?  " 

"Say  to  them  that  it  is  not  the  will  of  God  that 
you  go  farther !  " 

"Carajo,  they  will  shoot  me  for  it!  " 

"Que,  que!  What  of  that?  They  will  only 
cheat  the  Guardia  Civil  of  another  black  rogue !  " 

Little  comforted  by  the  words  of  consolation, 
grumbling  and  shaking  his  head  morosely,  Rafael 
Perez,  alias  Aguilino,  returned  to  the  bivouac  of  the 
nine  fantastic  ones.  The  other,  who  wore  the  garb 
of  a  serrano,  hurried  away  through  the  foggy  dark- 
ness, his  head  bent  and  brow  thoughtful. 

The  following  day,  as  slowly  they  climbed  one  of 
the  three  roads  which  led  into  the  mournful  Pass  of 
the  Blessed  Trinity,  a  huge  boulder  came  bounding 
down  from  the  granite  heights,  viciously  leaped  by 
John  Fremont  Carson's  head  and,  having  been  de- 
flected by  a  rock  above,  missed  the  last  mule  by  a 
good  dozen  yards.  The  guide  Aguilino  swore  in  his 
chest,  and  no  one  heard  him. 

As  the  sun  rose  to  its  meridian,  the  vertical  rays, 
reflected  from  the  stony  bare-fanged  walls,  gave  off 
an  intense  heat,  and  the  party  halted  in  a  hollow  that 
lay  brown  and  lean  between  two  mountains.  The 


THE  WOLF-CUB  169 

men  squatted  down  to  partake  of  a  light  noontide 
repast,  and  it  was  then  that  Rafael  Perez  approached 
Morales. 

"Caballero  of  my  soul,"  he  said  fearfully,  "I  can 
go  no  farther  with  you !  " 

"Disparate !  "  exclaimed  Morales,  jumping  to  his 
feet.  ''What  nonsense  is  this!  Hola,  Ferou  and 
you,  Carson ;  the  treacherous  knave  desires  to  aban- 
don us !  " 

The  Frenchman  and  American  crowded  up. 

"But  he  cannot!  "  objected  Ferou.  "We  will  not 
let  him!" 

"What  reason  have  you  for  refusing  to  go 
farther?  "  asked  Carson,  turning  upon  the  guide. 

"Senores,"  replied  Aguilino  with  feigned  humil- 
ity, but  no  little  trepidation;  "it  is  not  the  will  of 
God !  " 

"It  is  not  the  will  of  Jacinto  Quesada,  you 
mean !  "  bit  out  the  American  with  quick  penetra- 
tion. 

Aguilino  shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively. 

"Senores,"  he  whined,  "there  are  no  churches  in 
these  mountains,  and  men  of  the  good  Dios  come 
but  seldom  here.  In  these  mountains,  the  will  of 
Jacinto  Quesada  moves  stronger  than  does  the  will 
of  God!" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Morales,  with  sudden  under- 
standing. "So  that's  it,  eh?"  And  his  youthful 
face  cold  and  grim,  he  lifted  his  automatic  pistol  and 
shoved  it  beneath  the  nose  of  the  guide. 

"Smell  of  its  maw,  my  good  hombre !  "  he  com- 
manded metallically.  "Now  tell  me  whose  will  you 
will  obey ! " 


170  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Aguilino  grimaced  like  a  frightened  monkey. 

"Heart  of  God,  Senor  Don  Manuel,  I  will  stay,  I 
will  stay !  " 

They  went  on  through  the  hollow  in  the  northern 
hills.  And  Aguilino  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  that  terrible  Morales,"  he  mumbled  to  him- 
self. "Don  Jacinto  does  not  know  him.  Twice  has 
Don  Jacinto  failed  me  this  day." 

They  went  up  a  dark  green  corry  that  looked  like 
the  hiding  place  of  savage  wolves.  It  was  a  narrow 
bridle  path,  a  mere  tunnel  hewn  out  of  solid  rock 
and  overarching  foliage.  The  afternoon  drew  into 
twilight;  a  dim  fresco  held  beneath  the  plait-work 
of  lentisk,  oleanders,  and  clinging  briar;  and  then, 
all  at  once,  the  corry  topped  its  rise  and  began  de- 
scending, plunging  down  abrupt  rock  faces  and  zig- 
zagging about  the  mountainside  like  the  spiral  of  a 
corkscrew.  It  made  the  spine  tingle  to  think  that 
one  false  step  in  the  darkness  might  precipitate  one 
into  the  unseen  murmuring  stream  far  below. 

They  camped,  that  night,  in  a  dell  at  the  foot  of 
the  corry,  not  far  from  the  constantly  crashing 
stream.  When  they  sprawled  out  to  sleep,  Morales 
and  John  Fremont  Carson  drew  close  on  either  side 
of  Aguilino  and  carelessly  dropped  a  leg  across  his 
legs,  one  from  the  right,  the  other  from  the  left. 

But  they  slept  too  well,  those  self-appointed  body- 
guards. What  with  the  fatigue  poisons  that  had 
been  gathering  in  their  joints  and  muscles  during  the 
long  toilsome  day  and  the  many  days  which  had  pre- 
ceded it,  they  could  not  hope  to  bat  one  eye  in  sleep 
and  keep  the  other  warily  winking  at  the  mat  be- 
tween. Quickly  they  became  like  logs  of  wood, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  171 

incapable  of  feeling  and  enterprise.  And  in  some 
black  cavernous  hour  of  the  night,  Aguilino  crawled 
out  and  away. 

They  awoke  in  the  chill  dawn,  and  looked  about 
them  with  red-rimmed  eyes,  and  spoke  together  in 
husky  whispers.  Without  a  guide,  they  were  like 
the  fabled  babes  in  the  wood.  They  were  lost  com- 
pletely in  those  gray,  echoing,  savage  mountains. 

They  breakfasted  glumly  and,  with  lightened 
packs  upon  their  shoulders,  went  on.  Now  before 
them  stalked  no  Gypsy  guide;  before  them  stalked 
an  emaciated  and  bony  specter  that  looked  back  to 
grimace  every  little  while,  and  to  beckon  them  on — 
the  specter  of  Starvation! 


CHAPTER  XX 

HIGH  on  a  shoulder  of  the  Picacho  de  la  Veleta, 
one  late  afternoon,  stood  Jacinto  Quesada.  It  was 
very  cold,  and  his  mountaineer's  shawl  was  drawn 
tightly  around  his  throat  and  knotted  about  his  mid- 
dle. About  and  above  him  frowned  the  crags  and 
snow  spires  and  sinister  precipices  of  the  sierras; 
below,  splitting  the  mountain  like  a  great  clean 
knife-cut,  was  a  deep,  winding  pass. 

Quesada  was  morosely  engaged  in  watching  the 
peculiar  antics  of  a  number  of  men  in  a  cove  or 
pocket  to  one  side  of  that  pass. 

Inset  in  the  pocket,  under  a  thatched  pointed  roof, 
was  a  rudely  carved  figure  of  the  Saviour  hanging 
from  a  cross.  The  sacred  effigy  was  fashioned  of 
some  white  pine,  with  a  crown  of  black  horsehair 
and  dabs  of  red  paint,  in  hands  and  crossed  feet  and 
side,  to  depict  bleeding  wounds.  It  was  a  homely 
and  stark  symbol,  a  shrine  famous  in  the  mountains 
as  the  Christ  of  the  Pass. 

But  the  men,  despite  that  poignant  reminder  be- 
fore them,  were  not  kneeling  in  prayer  to  Heaven. 
They  were  squatting  among  the  huge  boulders  in 
the  ragged  prickly  gorse,  their  heads  lolling  on  their 
chests,  and  their  words,  when  they  talked,  coming  in 
disjointed,  never-finished  sentences  as  if  they  were 
wearied  and  needed  sleep. 

They  were  the  nine  fantastic  cabalgadores.  They 
were  starving.  For  three  days  not  a  morsel  of  food 


THE  WOLF-CUB  173 

had  passed  their  lips.  Theirs  had  been  a  complete 
fast  from  organic  solids.  That  noon,  at  a  moun- 
tain burnlet,  for  the  last  time  they  had  drunk  copi- 
ously of  water.  It  had  served  to  keep  up  their 
ebbing  strength. 

Now,  however,  they  were  suffering  all  the  distress 
and  tortures  of  hunger  and  thirst.  Their  stomachs 
yearned,  but  the  gastric  juices  were  dry;  their  heads 
ached  and  at  times  felt  heavy  as  shot,  and  at  other 
times,  light  and  dizzy.  They  had  been  compelled  to 
sit  down.  They  were  still  too  low  in  the  sierras 
to  come  across  the  tracks  of  snow-capering  wild 
ibex  and  thus  appease  their  famished  stomachs. 
They  were  suffering  an  agony,  hopeless  and 
cruel. 

Starvation  excites  the  imagination  and  causes 
giddying  eyes  to  see  illusions.  It  was  thus  with 
John  Fremont  Carson,  the  American.  Come  of 
light-headedness  and  fretted  nerves,  he  had  thought, 
all  through  that  third  day,  that  as  they  walked  along 
they  were  companioned  by  a  strange  man  who 
walked  with  them,  now  on  one  hand,  now  in  the 
brush  on  the  other. 

Pausing  for  minutes  to  think,  losing  the  line  of 
thought,  beginning  and  never  finishing  his  state- 
ments, yet  somehow  he  communicated  his  fancy 
to  Morales.  The  matador  nodded;  he  also  had 
seen  the  shawl-wrapped  gliding  figure.  But  the 
Frenchman  pleaded  ignorance  of  any  such  illu- 
sion. 

Of  a  sudden  now,  as  they  squatted  about  the 
shrine,  aware  only  of  the  ceaseless  gnawings  of  their 
stomachs,  from  up  the  road  came  the  crash  as  of  a 


174  THE  WOLF-CUB 

falling  bounding  stone.  It  was  as  if  some  one, 
moving  along  the  cliff  above  their  heads,  had  dis- 
lodged the  stone  from  underfoot. 

"It  is  he,"  said  Carson,  and  he  thought  he  added : 
"The  unknown  man."  But  the  words  died  unsaid 
on  his  parched  lips. 

Morales  nodded  and  continued  to  nod,  his  head 
wagging  loosely  like  that  of  a  mechanical  toy. 
After  an  appreciable  interval,  he  said,  "He  is  prowl- 
ing about  us  like  a  hungry  wolf." 

The  tall,  blond,  mustached  Frenchman  seemed  the 
strongest  of  all  those  once-strong  men.  He  pulled 
out  his  large-calibered  revolver.  With  none  of  the 
hesitancy  of  feebleness,  he  said: 

"I  shall  go  forward.  I  am  the  only  one  that  can 
walk  and  see  straight.  If  this  unknown  man  is 
truly  skulking  about,  I  shall  find  out  what  he  is  do- 
ing up  there  ahead." 

He  left  the  pitiful  cluster  of  men.  Without  any 
signs  of  dizziness  or  staggering,  he  walked  between 
the  boulders  which  bestrew  the  path.  Bent  sharply 
forward,  revolver  in  hand,  he  disappeared  around  a 
turn  of  the  road. 

Abruptly,  from  beside  the  road  and  very  near  at 
hand,  came  then,  loud  and  distinct,  the  sharp  snap- 
ping of  shrub  twigs.  The  men  squatting  before  the 
shrine  looked  about  dully.  Out  of  the  gorse  and 
bramble  beside  the  road  stepped  the  man  whom  they 
had  seen  following  them  all  that  day.  He  wore 
heavy  rope  sandals,  sheepskin  zamarra,  a  long 
scrape  and  pointed  mountaineer's  hat.  He  was 
Jacinto  Quesada. 

Weakly   the    famished   men    reached    for    their 


THE  WOLF-CUB  175 

weapons;  but  he  smiled  with  friendliness  and  com- 
miseration, and  sat  down  among  them. 

"There  is  no  need  of  force,  senores,"  he  said. 
"I  am  here  of  my  own  free  will." 

The  starving  men  looked  at  him  as  they  would 
at  a  ghost,  hardly  able  to  credit  their  eyes.  As  he 
spoke,  Morales  reached  over  and  touched  him  on  the 
arm. 

"My  soul ! "  he  exclaimed,  the  excitement  of  the 
discovery  stimulating  his  undermined  energies. 
"He  is  real — Jacinto  Quesada  himself!" 

"You  are  starving,  senores,"  said  the  bandolero, 
"or  else  you  would  never  doubt  that  it  is  I.  But 
I  prolong  your  agony.  Eat;  I  have  brought  you 
food!" 

From  beneath  the  voluminous  folds  of  his  shawl, 
he  produced  a  bota  or  skin  of  wine  and  an  osier 
basket  containing  cold  sausages  of  meat,  a  chunk 
of  goat's  cheese,  and  some  cornbread. 

The  famished  men  clawed  the  stuff  from  his 
hands.  They  were  too  hungry  to  pause  for  polite- 
ness or  to  think  of  thanks.  They  did  not  even  stop 
to  realize  how  incongruous  it  was  that  he  whom 
they  had  been  relentlessly  pursuing  should  come  to 
them  now  of  his  own  accord  and  bring  them  that 
which  they  so  direly  needed.  They  thought  only  of 
appeasing  the  gnawings  of  their  stomachs  which  had 
sharpened  and  become  suddenly  overpowering  at  the 
sight  and  smell  of  food. 

They  crammed  fistfuls  of  food  into  their  mouths 
and  gulped  the  whole  fistfuls  almost  without  chew- 
ing. They  ate  without  wait  for  words  or  breath, 
ravenously,  like  lean  voracious  wolves.  But  after 


176  THE  WOLF-CUB 

a  little,  the  American  halted,  a  stout  piece  of  bread 
to  his  lips.  He  looked  at  Morales  with  eyes  that 
were  livening  with  quickly  returning  energy. 

"Jacques  Ferou !  "  he  breathed. 

"Si,"  exclaimed  Morales,  also  pausing  between  a 
mouthful.  "The  Frenchman !" 

"The  Frenchman?"  repeated  Quesada,  and  he 
laughed  bitterly.  "Ah,  he  is  well  able  to  take  care 
of  himself ;  he  is  a  very  lizard  for  living  on !  He 
has  not  been  starving  like  you.  From  the  back  of 
that  last  mule,  ere  I  shot  it  from  across  the  canon 
and  caused  it  to  drop  off  the  cliff,  he  filched  a  loaf 
of  bread.  His  distress  has  been  even  more  severe 
than  yours  because  he  tempted  his  stomach  without 
wholly  satisfying  it;  but. by  nibbling  secretly  for  the 
last  few  days  at  this  bread,  he  has  been  enabled  to 
keep  fairly  strong." 

The  men,  their  tissues,  muscles,  and  nerves,  under- 
going rapid  repair  because  of  the  nutriment  they  had 
taken  into  their  systems,  looked  astounded  and  a 
little  incensed. 

"But  why  did  he  not  share  with  us?  "  asked  one, 
Baptista  Monterey,  a  short  thick-set  banderillero 
in  the  ordinary  tight-fitting  black  clothes  of  the  pro- 
fession. 

"The  man  is  a  French  crook,  a  member  of  the 
clever  criminal  society  of  White  Wolves,"  explained 
Quesada  with  marked  patience.  "From  what 
Felicidad  has  told  me  about  him,  I  have  come  to 
understand  the  workings  of  his  evil  mind.  I  know 
what  he  is  about.  You  appreciate,  senores,  that 
Don  Manuel  and  this  Americano,  Senor  Carson, 
both  withdrew  large  sums  from  the  Bank  of  Spain, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  177 

and  that  the  residue  of  these  sums  is  still  upon  their 
persons.  Jacques  Ferou  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
get  this  money.  The  man  is  avid  for  money.  He 
means  that  you  all  should  die,  and  that  he  shall  sur- 
vive you !  " 

"But  he  must  be  starving  now,"  objected  Morales. 
"The  bread  could  not  last  forever." 

"It  lasted  until  yesterday  evening,"  rejoined  Que- 
sada.  "And  this  morning  he  accidentally  cut  his 
hand  on  a  projecting  rock.  I  was  watching  from 
the  brush  to  one  side.  He  sucked  the  blood  from 
the  cut,  and  that  further  strengthened  him.  It  is 
odd,  mis  caballeros,  but  a  man  can  live  for  many 
days  by  taking  his  own  blood  into  his  system.  It 
is  better  even  than  water." 

"But  now,"  persisted  Morales. 

"Would  you  care  to  see  what  Ferou  is  doing 
now?  " 

They  nodded  with  an  awakening  show  of  eager- 
ness. 

"We  will  bring  him  food  anyway,"  said  Carson. 

Packing  the  now  flabby  bota  of  wine  and  the  few 
sausages  and  bits  of  bread  and  cheese  which  re- 
mained, they  went  on  up  the  road  between  the 
boulders  at  the  heels  of  the  stalking  bandolero. 
Twilight  was  thickening.  They  rounded  the  bend 
and  there,  where  the  road  slanted  down  into  a  ferny 
depression,  they  made  out  before  them,  seated 
astraddle  a  fallen  tree,  the  Frenchman,  Jacques 
Ferou. 

They  watched  in  a  kind  of  bewilderment.  The 
Frenchman's  gray-coated  back  was  toward  them,  and 
he  was  bending  down  over  the  trunk.  He  appeared 


178  THE  WOLF-CUB 

to  be  working  with  his  hands  at  the  trunk  and  carry- 
ing those  hands,  every  so  often,  to  his  mouth.  But 
it  was  all  very  vague  in  the  thick  twilight. 

"Chispas ! "  exclaimed  Morales  in  perplexity. 
"What  is  he  doing  there  ?  " 

"Eating  the  wood-grubs  in  that  rotten  tree !  " 

The  men  ejaculated  in  wrathful  resentment. 
Said  Carson:  "So  that's  why  he  left  the  camp 
alone!" 

"Si ;  the  French  pig !  "  from  Morales.  "And  he 
would  not  tell  us  of  even  this  distasteful  means  of 
satisfying  our  hunger  and  preserving  our  lives!  " 

"Despacio ! "  warned  Quesada  in  a  low  tone. 
"Softly,  gently,  senores.  Let  us  not  disturb  him, 
but  go  back  alone.  I  have  a  deal  more  to  tell  you 
about  this  man.  I  should  prefer  that  he  would  not 
be  near  to  hear." 

They  rounded  the  bend  and  made  down  the  road 
toward  the  shrine.  As  they  went,  Morales  and 
Carson  looked  at  one  another.  Then,  without  haste 
and  very  grimly,  each  reached  into  the  osier  basket 
on  the  American's  arm  and  passed  out  among  the 
men  the  remainder  of  the  food. 

The  moon  rose  over  the  hills  as  they  approached 
the  shrine,  and  a  random  shaft,  plunging  down  the 
pass,  lighted  the  white  figure  and  bleeding  wounds 
of  the  crucified  Christ  with  stark  and  ghastly  effect. 
The  men  squatted  among  the  boulders  in  the  ragged 
prickly  gorse. 

"Senores,"  began  Jacinto  Quesada,  "ever  since 
you  entered  these  mountains,  I  have  been  close  to 
you.  Every  move  you  have  made,  I  have  watched ; 
every  unfortunate  circumstance  which  befell  you,  I 


THE  WOLF-CUB  179 

have  caused.  I  rolled  the  boulder  down  the  cliff 
which  was  meant  for  your  last  mule.  I  shot  that 
last  mule,  three  days  ago,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
box  canon.  The  day  before  that,  I  commanded  the 
guide  to  leave  you.  You  did  not  recognize  Agui- 
lino ;  you  thought  him  a  Gypsy ;  but  he  is  my  dorado, 
Rafael  Perez,  who  helped  rob  you  on  the  Seville-to- 
Madrid ! " 

The  men  murmured  their  surprise  at  the  revela- 
tion. 

"But  why,"  ejaculated  Morales,  "why,  Senor 
Quesada,  did  you  do  all  this?  " 

"In  order  that  I  might  show  you  Jacques  Ferou  in 
his  true  light.  Once  you  were  starving,  I  knew  the 
innate  selfishness  of  the  man  would  out.  Then,  if 
I  could  make  you  believe  me  in  the  matter  of  the 
Frenchman,  I  knew  you  must  believe  me  in  my  whole 
story.  Listen,  senores,  and  I  shall  tell  you  the 
reason  why  I  snatched  and  fled  away  with  the  girl." 

Quickly  then,  Quesada  sketched  to  them  the  story 
told  him  by  Felicidad.  He  ended : 

"You  see,  senores,  I  did  not  actually  kidnap  this 
old  friend  of  my  childhood.  It  was  her  wish.  I 
merely  took  her  away  to  save  her  from  a  worse  evil, 
this  filthy  one,  Ferou !  " 

Strong  now  with  the  meal  he  had  eaten  and 
strangely  elated  over  the  story  he  just  had  heard, 
the  matador  sprang  enthusiastically  to  his  feet. 

"Senor  Don  Jacinto !  "  he  exclaimed.  "You  are 
a  bandolero  of  the  splendid  good  old  sort — the 
Jose  Maria,  the  Visco  el  Borje  sort!  I  knew  it, 
caballero  of  my  heart!  You  are  a  true  Moor, 
chivalrous  and  brave !  " 


i8o  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Carson,  with  the  canniness  so  characteristic  of  the 
American,  was  not  to  be  so  easily  convinced.  True, 
for  the  salt  that  he  had  eaten,  he  was  under  obliga- 
tion to  Jacinto  Quesada.  He  appreciated  that  obli- 
gation and  was  thankful  to  the  bandolero  for  what 
he  had  done  for  him  and  the  others.  But  what  he 
appreciated,  probably  in  fuller  mete  than  did  any  of 
the  others,  was  that  Quesada  was  a  man,  clear- 
headed, far-sighted,  judicious,  and  acutely  adroit. 

Quesada  had  convicted  himself,  by  his  own  word, 
of  robbing  them  of  their  mules  and  guide  in  order 
to  bring  them  into  a  state  of  starvation.  Once  they 
were  enfeebled  by  hunger  and  thirst,  he  had  come 
to  them  with  food.  Naturally  they  were  grateful. 
And  it  was  while  their  hearts  were  warm  with  grat- 
itude toward  him  that  he  had  related  the  past  inci- 
dents in  a  new  phase,  incriminating  one  of  their 
number,  the  Frenchman,  and  very  plausibly  explain- 
ing his  reasons  for  running  off  with  the  girl.  He 
had  sowed  suspicion  and  dissension  among  them, 
what  time  he  had  placed  himself,  in  the  matter  of 
Felicidad,  in  a  good  if  not  heroic  light.  It  all 
seemed  an  ingenious,  well-calculated,  and  bold  plan. 

"But,"  objected  Carson,  "but  may  we  not  see  the 
girl?  Not  that  I  doubt  you,  Senor  Quesada,"  he 
added  with  almost  Spanish  politeness ;  "but  we  have 
come  all  this  way  to  help  Senorita  Torreblanca  y 
Moncada  and  it  would  greatly  please  us,  now,  to  see 
her  and  to  know  that  she  is  safe." 

"My  native  village  of  Minas  de  la  Sierra,"  said 
Jacinto  Quesada,  "is  only  a  night's  journey  farther 
up  the  Picacho  de  la  Veleta.  There  Felicidad  is 
staying  in  the  cabana  of  my  mother,  and  to  there  I 


THE  WOLF-CUB  181 

shall  be  glad  to  guide  you.  Yet  I  warn  you, 
senores !  "  He  paused  ominously. 

"What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Carson  sharply. 

"Something  wrong  with  Felicidad  ? "  from 
Morales. 

"Yesterday,"  said  Quesada,  "my  mother  died. 
She  had  long  grieved  for  my  father,  but  we  fear  it 
was  not  grief  alone  which  killed  her.  We  fear, 
senores,"  and  his  voice  lowered — "we  fear 
cholera ! " 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  cabalgadores  started  in  horror  and  a  kind  of 
personal  fear.  Explained  Quesada  with  grave  com- 
posure : 

"In  this  autumnal  season  of  sudden  weather 
changes,  it  is  forever  scaling  these  hills,  the  cholera, 
and  skulking  into  the  pueblos  in  the  night.  When 
the  rain  sweeps  down,  muddying  our  water  and 
making  howling  torrents  of  the  dog  trails,  we  can- 
not descend  the  sierras  for  the  fruits  of  the  plains; 
we  must  subsist  on  our  few  scanty  vegetables;  and 
the  impure  water  and  the  poor,  changeless  diet  bring 
on  the  plague.  When  the  sun  breaks  through  the 
squalls  and  fogs,  the  abrupt  alteration  of  damp  and 
dry  stony  heat  aggravate  the  conditions.  There- 
fore, whenever  one  of  us  dies  in  this  season  and  there 
is  no  doctor  to  tell  us  exactly  why  that  one  died,  we 
instantly  think  of  the  cholera. 

"It  was  thus  in  my  mother's  case.  The  only  doc- 
tor near  here  who  will  journey  up  these  perilous  goat 
paths  and  moaning  gorges  to  help  the  poor  ser- 
ranos,  is  the  hidalgo  doctor,  Don  Jaime  de  Torre- 
blanca  y  Moncada,  a  grandee  of  Spain  and  Felici- 
dad's  own  father.  We  sent  one  of  the  villagers  for 
him,  but  he  was  away  looking  for  Felicidad  and  for 
his  stolen  money.  And  my  mother  died.  It  may 
be  nothing,  senores ;  it  may  be  the  dread  cholera ; 
but  at  least,  mis  caballeros,  I  have  warned  you." 

Questioningly,  almost  with  haughty  challenge,  he 


THE  WOLF-CUB  183 

looked  at  Morales.  The  matador  hesitated.  He 
glanced  at  his  cuadrilla.  Whether  because  of  the 
privations  they  had  suffered,  or  because  of  the  pale 
light  from  the  chance  moonbeams,  or  because  of  an 
inconcealable  revulsion  and  dread,  the  faces  of  the 
bullfighters  looked  blanched  and  sharply  haggard. 
The  matador  turned  for  moral  aid  to  the  American. 

Carson  was  engrossed  in  a  perplexity  of  thought. 
Was  this  but  an  obstacle  suddenly  contrived  and  cun- 
ningly put  in  their  way  to  cause  them  to  take  the 
bandolero's  word  on  its  face  value,  without  seeking 
further  to  ascertain  the  facts  about  the  girl  ?  Que- 
sada  had  left  himself  room  to  crawl  out.  It  might 
be  nothing,  he  had  said,  or  it  might  be  a  noxious 
pestilence.  It  could  always  prove  to  be  nothing. 

"We  will  risk  the  chance,"  decided  the  American 
with  determination.  "We  will  go  with  you  to  your 
barrio." 

There  was  a  noisy  rustling  and  crackling  of  the 
gorse  as  the  men  scrambled  afoot.  Well,  suddenly 
above  the  noise,  from  the  foliage-embowered  dark- 
ness up  the  road,  exploded  a  voice  of  command : 

"Throw  up  your  hands,  you  Jacinto  Quesada !  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  Frenchman.  He  stepped 
into  the  moonlight.  Tall  and  blond,  his  ashy  skin 
drawn  tight  with  virulent  resolution  over  his  hawk- 
like face,  his  slate-colored  eyes  showing  bright  as  an 
animal's,  he  pointed  his  large-calibered  revolver  at 
the  bandolero. 

Quesada  obeyed  with  quick  dispatch.  Yet  he 
found  occasion  to  whisper  to  the  others,  "I  have 
told  you  the  truth,  senores.  I  am  altogether  in 
your  hands." 


1 84  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Whether  they  should  intervene  just  then  or  allow 
things  to  take  a  certain  limited  course,  the  American 
and  the  matador  were  uncertain.  How  much  had 
the  Frenchman  heard?  Did  he  know  that  he  him- 
self was  accused  of  crime,  of  thievery  and  abduction, 
and  of  worse  than  crime — failure  to  share  with 
them  while  they  were  enduring  the  intolerable  pangs 
of  starvation?  Was  this  but  a  bold  move  to  re- 
trieve favor  in  their  eyes?  Carson  and  Morales 
decided,  all  at  once  to  wait. 

Never  removing  the  menace  of  the  revolver, 
slowly  Jacques  Ferou  drew  near. 

"Carson,"  he  instructed  with  biting  command, 
"you  search  him.  He  has  my  roll  of  five-thousand 
peseta  bills !  " 

Plainly  then  Carson  realized  that  the  Frenchman 
could  not  have  overheard  Quesada's  history  of  that 
money.  This  was  but  a  presumptuous  and  shame- 
less attempt  to  recover  the  doctor's  bills ! 

"He  hasn't  your  money,  Ferou !  "  objected  Carson 
with  promptitude  and  energy.  "He  just  has  told  us 
that  he  turned  those  bills  over  to  Felicidad,  whose 
dowry  they  were." 

It  was,  of  course,  a  lie.  Quesada  had  explained 
quite  definitely,  in  the  course  of  his  story,  that  he 
was  holding  the  purse  against  an  occurrence  he 
dreaded.  He  knew,  with  a  fearful  certitude,  that 
Doctor  Torreblanca  y  Moncada  must  soon  hear 
where  his  disgraced  daughter  had  found  refuge ;  and 
then  would  he  come,  stony  of  eye  and  agate  of  heart, 
to  wreak  vengeance  upon  her.  Quesada  intended  to 
produce  the  bills,  at  that  trying  moment,  in  the  hope 
that  their  appearance  would  have  the  effect  of  miti- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  185 

gating*  the  awful  anger  of  the  haughty  Don  Jaime. 

But  the  Frenchman,  not  having  overheard  any 
of  Quesada's  recital,  swallowed  the  bait  in  blissful 
ignorance. 

"Is  that  so?  "  he  queried  with  a  lift  of  his  blond 
eyebrows.  He  leaped  into  a  sudden  and  importu- 
nate impatience.  "Let  us  go,  let  us  go  to  my 
fiancee!  "  he  urged.  "Oh,  I  must  see  Felicidad!  " 

Said  Morales  very  coldly,  "Jacinto  Quesada  is 
just  about  to  lead  us  to  his  native  pueblo  where  the 
girl  is  domiciled." 

"But  I  trust  him  not !  How  do  we  know  that  he 
will  lead  us  aright;  how  do  we  know  that  it  is  not 
all  a  lie  ?  Blue  devils !  he  may  have  the  very  money 
on  him  now  and  be  but  leading  us  into  a  snare! 
Here  you,  Quesada!  Keep  up  your  arms!  I  will 
search  you  myself  alone!  " 

But  Carson  stepped  between. 

"Senor  Quesada  has  offered  to  guide  us  to  his  vil- 
lage," he  said,  "and  Don  Manuel,  his  cuadrilla  and 
I  have  signified  our  willingness  implicitly  to  trust 
him.  You  must  abide  by  the  decision  of  the  major- 
ity. Ferou,  put  down  your  gun !  " 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was 
wise  to  obey ;  there  were  two  and  more  against  him. 
He  stuck  the  weapon  in  his  coat  pocket. 

But  Quesada  shook  his  head. 

"I  will  trust  him  not,  this  Frenchman,  senores. 
My  offer  was  to  you.  If  the  Frenchman  is  to  go 
along,  he  must  go  along  unarmed." 

"Mais  non,  mais  non! "  expostulated  the  French- 
man, lapsing  in  his  agitation  into  his  native  lan- 
guage. 


i86  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"Pucs  y  que?"  asked  Morales  sharply.  "Why 
not?"  And  he  snatched  the  revolver,  with  the 
words  from  Ferou's  pocket. 

The  Frenchman  seemed  of  a  temperament  to  blow 
hot  and  cold  by  turns.  He  recovered  almost  im- 
mediately from  his  first  fears.  He  shrugged  his 
athletic  shoulders.  A  man  like  a  gutta-percha  ball 
he  was,  resilient,  full  of  elasticity,  rebounding  when 
struck.  Behind  Morales'  back,  slyly  and  covertly 
he  smiled  his  calculating  and  very  superior  smile. 

Now,  following  the  striding  long-legged  figure 
of  the  bandolero,  the  nine  cabalgadores  pursued  on 
and  upward  through  the  moon-shimmering  night. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON  the  great  rock  at  the  brink  of  the  village  of 
Minas  de  la  Sierra  where,  years  before  when  he  was 
yet  a  very  little  Spaniard,  Jacinto  Quesada  had  stood 
with  his  weeping  mother  and  watched  his  father 
hurry  down  the  mountainside  on  an  enterprise  of 
forlorn  and  fatal  desperation,  a  boy  in  cotton  knee 
breeches  and  bare  brown  legs,  despite  the  mountain 
cold,  stood  waiting  like  some  statue  carved  in  basalt. 

Behind  him,  into  the  dull  gray  wash  of  sky,  the 
Picacho  de  la  Veleta  lifted  its  craggy  head;  off  to 
the  northeast  bulked  snowy  old  Muley  Hassan, 
Cerro  de  Mulhacen,  the  highest  peak  of  the  penin- 
sula; and  all  about,  just  brightening  with  the  chill 
light  of  dawn,  were  the  bleak  spires  of  lesser  moun- 
tains, shadowy  defiles,  dark  and  moaning  gorges. 
Nothing  moved  in  the  leaden,  glacial,  desolate 
reaches  save  an  immense  lammergeyer  that  hovered 
on  slow  wings  over  its  high  eyrie  like  some  black 
dragon  of  morbid  fancy. 

Presently,  out  of  the  gloom  of  a  lower  gorge,  the 
shapes  of  men  emerged  into  view  and  began  mount- 
ing the  fiber-line  of  goat  path  which  curved  and 
twisted  and  wound  up  to  the  barrio  like  a  convoluted 
snake.  It  was  Jacinto  Quesada,  leading  the  nine 
cabalgadores,  weary  from  the  long  climb  through 
the  night. 

The  boy  began  crying  out  at  the  sight.  It  is  an 
odd  fact  that  sounds  high  on  mountains  lose  in 


i88  THE  WOLF-CUB 

volume,  but  gain  in  distinctness  and  carrying  power. 
The  cries  of  the  boy  that  were  more  like  the  bleating 
of  a  helpless  ewe  beset  by  wild  dogs,  dropped  down 
to  the  men  in  the  gorge. 

"Oh,  Jacinto,  caballero  of  my  soul!  "  he  shrilled. 
"The  mother  of  me,  who  waited  in  her  last  illness 
upon  your  own  good  mother — God  rest  her  soul ! — 
my  own  pobre  mamacita  is  sick!  Last  night,  her 
stomach  turned  upside  down  on  her,  and  to-day  her 
skin  is  blue  and  cold !  Save  her,  Don  Jacinto  of  my 
heart;  save  her  to  me,  and  the  Holy  Mother  of  God 
will  kiss  your  brow  with  fortune ! " 

"Hush,  Gabriellito!  "  said  Quesada  tenderly,  when 
he  came  up  in  the  van.  He  gathered  the  boy  to  him, 
under  one  arm,  and  turned  to  the  others.  His  young 
smooth  brown  face  was  priestly  with  pain  and 
somberness  and  a  great  pity.  In  a  grave  voice,  he 
said: 

"There  can  be  no  mistake,  senores ;  it  is  indeed  the 
dread  cholera!  Like  the  great  black  wings  of  that 
lammergeyer  of  the  air,  it  has  closed  down  about  my 
poor  pueblo." 

A  little  clatter  of  sound  came  from  a  yellow  run 
of  water  as  it  trickled,  after  the  old  Moorish 
fashion,  down  the  village  street  through  an  open 
stone  gutter.  In  Minas  de  la  Sierra,  clinging  like 
a  cragmartin's  nest  to  a  ledge  of  the  Picacho  de  la 
Veleta,  there  was  naught  else  of  sound  or  move- 
ment. 

No  old  men  mumbled  endless  talk  in  the  cold  sun 
beneath  the  cork-oak  in  the  center ;  no  shawled  man- 
zanilleros  strode  by  with  panniers  of  the  white- 
flowered  manzanilla  upon  their  backs.  From  the 


THE  WOLF-CUB  189 

scanty  forests  above  came  no  sound  of  woodchop- 
pers,  no  steely  ring  of  axe  on  pine.  Tightly  closed 
were  the  wooden  hatches  which  shuttered  the  win- 
dows of  the  mud-and-thatch  cabanas.  Within,  no 
light  from  the  great  open  fireplaces  cleaved  the 
darkness.  There  was  no  laugh  or  squeal  of  chil- 
dren. 

Gabriel,  the  village  lad,  unable  to  restrain  his 
nervousness  and  deep  fear,  hurriedly  led  them  to  the 
mud  choza  where  his  mother  lay  dying.  It  was  very 
dark  within.  Strings  of  pimentos  hung  drying 
from  the  low  rafters.  There  was  a  bed  on  either 
side  of  the  cold  fireplace.  On  one  of  the  beds  the 
woman  was  prostrated  under  a  heap  of  rags. 

All  sap  seemed  to  be  drained  from  her  body. 
She  was  withered  and  dark-hued  as  a  burnt  match. 
Carson  stooped  and  felt  her  wrist.  The  pulse-beat 
was  an  almost  imperceptible  flutter.  Quesada 
spoke  gently  to  her  and,  with  brave  effort,  she  an- 
swered in  a  whisper  that  was  as  the  gasping  of  a 
wind  through  one  of  the  boulder-strewn  passes 
above.  That  was  the  vox  cholerica.  She  was  in 
the  second  and  usually  fatal  stage  of  malignant 
cholera. 

They  left  the  boy  lamenting  softly  at  the  bedside 
of  his  mother. 

"She  is  a  widow,"  said  Quesada,  "and  all  he  has 
left  in  the  world." 

Their  fears  a  hideous  certitude  now,  grimly  they 
went  through  the  dying  village.  In  a  nearby  hut, 
they  found  an  old  white-haired  man  altogether  dead. 
His  muscles  were  oddly  contracted;  one  arm  was 
turned  round,  the  palm  of  the  hand  out  and  hang- 


190  THE  WOLF-CUB 

ing  over  the  edge  of  the  cornshuck  tick.  As  very 
often  happens  after  death  through  cholera,  his 
body  was  not  only  still  warm,  but  rising  in  tempera- 
ture, burning  up. 

It  seemed  poignantly  lonely  in  there  with  the  soli- 
tary dead.  They  stumbled  out  of  the  sour  darkness. 

"That  was  Antonio  Villarobledo,"  said  Quesada; 
"a  man  who  has  long  lived  alone.  He  was  almost 
a  father  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy." 

Everywhere  they  went  in  the  barrio,  everywhere 
in  the  cold  clay  cabanas,  Death  had  stalked  before 
them  on  bony  rickety  legs,  a  chill  damp  on  his  fore- 
head, his  emaciated  fingers  picking  at  the  coverlets 
of  the  sick,  shutting  their  eyes  to  desire  and  despair. 
A  great  illness  was  on  the  serranos — a  foul  plague 
that  caused  them  to  double  up  with  stomach  cramps 
and  vomit  a  gray  pasty  whey;  that  turned  their  skins 
to  blue  and  purple  and  swatted  them  off,  like  flies, 
within  twelve  and  twenty-four  hours. 

It  was  the  scourge  the  nut-brown  Gypsy  Paquita 
had  foreseen  on  the  little  white  beach  in  the  bar- 
ranca. But  surely  she  could  have  had  no  hand  in 
bringing  it  about !  Quesada  had  explained  that  the 
plague  lifted  its  fanged  and  evil  head  wherever  the 
water  was  impure,  and  there  were  errors  in  diet, 
and  the  atmosphere  changed  abruptly  from  damp  to 
sudden  heat  and  back  again. 

Yet  the  wonder  remains  how  the  Gitana  even 
could  have  predicted  it.  To  be  sure,  cholera  was 
forever  sweeping  the  high  hills.  Was  her  magic 
on  the  white  beach,  then,  only  a  natural  suppo- 
sition, a  bit  of  logical  deduction  and  reasonable 
ratiocination?  Or  did  it  partake  of  something 


THE  WOLF-CUB  191 

more,  something  uncanny,  impious  and  pagan — 
some  real  and  diabolical  warlockry?  Dios  hombre 
only  knows ! 

But  John  Fremont  Carson,  the  American,  thought 
that  he  understood  the  reasons  for  the  plague. 

"What  these  folk  need  is  education,"  he  remarked 
thoughtfully  to  Morales.  "Education  can  do  every- 
thing!" 

It  was  identically  what  he  had  said  amid  the 
squalor  and  squall  in  the  Gypsy  camp. 

"Education,  si !  "  returned  Morales,  even  as  he 
had  on  that  occasion.  "But  what  they  need  more  is 
some  one  with  a  lion  heart,  a  great  golden  arrogant 
heart,  to  lead  them  in  the  fight,  to  lead  them 
up!" 

Jacques  Ferou  said  nothing ;  but  again,  despite  the 
pitiful  agonies  and  shocking  horrors  about  them, 
he  had  the  flinty  hardihood  to  smile  his  calculating 
and  very  superior  smile. 

They  came  at  last,  in  the  course  of  their  rounds, 
to  the  cabana  where  Quesada's  mother  had  died  and 
where  the  girl,  Felicidad,  now  was  living.  They 
discovered  her  sitting  up  on  the  straw-matted  bed, 
looking  more  wan  than  ever,  a  hot  sweat  beading  the 
roots  of  her  golden  hair,  her  white  febrile  fingers 
gripping  the  side  of  the  tick,  and  her  whole  ivory  and 
gold  form  shaking  like  a  mountain  aspen  with  retch- 
ing seizures. 

Ouesada  cried  out  hoarsely  in  shocked  and  fear- 
ful astonishment.  He  sprung  toward  her.  But  a 
cramp  seemed  to  bind  her  right  arm ;  she  let  go  her 
clutching  hold  on  the  side  of  the  tick,  and  fell  back. 
Tenderly  the  bandolero  tucked  a  pillow  under  her 


192  THE  WOLF-CUB 

rich-crowned  head  and  pulled  over  her  a  wolfskin 
from  the  nearby  couch. 

They  came  out  into  the  brisk  clean  air  of  the 
morning.  Like  a  blow,  dismay  had  struck  dull  the 
light  in  each  man's  eyes.  Said  Quesada  simply : 

"This  is  the  first  stage  of  autumnal  cholera. 
God  grant  that  she  may  recover!  " 

"What  measures  do  you  take  to  relieve  the  suf- 
ferers, to  counteract  the  disease,  to  wipe  out  the 
plague  ?  "  the  American  wanted  to  know. 

"There  is  little  that  we  can  do,  Senor  Carson. 
Up  here  in  these  hills  only  the  simplest  remedies 
are  available  to  our  use.  When  a  man  is  burning  up 
inside  and  calls  for  water,  we  give  him  water — " 

"From  that  cesspool  there?  "  And  Carson  indi- 
cated the  open  yellow  rivulet  coursing  down  the 
center  of  the  uneven  street. 

"It  is  all  we  have.  Our  fathers  built  that  stone 
channel,  ages  ago,  in  the  days  of  the  Moor.  What 
would  you,  Senor  Americano  ?  The  nearest  stream, 
other  than  this,  is  far  down  the  goat  path  in  the 
lower  gorge." 

"Go  on,"  said  Carson  with  unintentional  brusque- 
ness.  "When  a  man  disgorges — " 

"We  tell  him  to  put  his  finger  down  his  throat  and 
to  keep  straining  so  long  as  a  particle  of  undigested 
food  shows.  When  his  stomach  is  sick  and  worn 
from  bowel  evacuations,  and  wretched  with  intesti- 
nal pains,  we  put  a  plaster  of  hot  mustard  over  his 
abdomen  as  a  counter-irritant,  or  we  rub  his  abdo- 
men with  penetrating  turpentine.  There  is  turpen- 
tine in  the  few  pines  that  remain  in  the  dank  hol- 
lows of  these  hills." 


THE  WOLF-CUB  193 

Carson  nodded  rather  abstractedly.  It  was  as  if 
his  mind  were  divided  between  listening  to  Quesada 
and  developing  along  a  certain  line  of  reasoning. 
The  others  stood  close  about  and  heeded  in  per- 
plexed wonder. 

"From  the  turpentine,  also,  we  extract  a  form  of 
aperient  oil  which,  when  taken  in  large  doses,  aids 
purging." 

"And  the  ejecta?"  suggested  Carson. 

"Oh,  we  cover  that  over  with  earth,  or  throw  into 
a  pit,  or  cast  down  the  cliffs.  When  a  man  faints, 
we  pour  sour  wine  or  raw  mountain  brandy  down 
his  throat.  And  if  he  would  eat,  we  milk  our  goats 
and  we  brew  up  soups." 

"But  you  do  not  use  opiates  to  allay  pain  and  halt 
the  discharges?  " 

Quesada  shook  his  head. 

"Only  Doctor  Torreblanca  y  Moncada  knows 
how  to  handle  that.  Ah,  would  to  God  that  the 
haughty  Don  Jaime  were  here!  He  has  a  heart 
of  blood  for  all  the  iron  of  his  manner.  And 
he  has  hands  of  gold  for  calling  the  dying  back  to 
life!" 

"But  why  is  he  not  here?  " 

"I  have  told  you,  senor.  The  bitter  old  man  is 
away  looking  for  Felicidad  and  for  his  stolen  money. 
But  Don  Juan,"  he  added  eagerly,  with  sudden  in- 
spiration, "perhaps  you  are  a  senor  doctor,  too! 
You  Americanos  know  so  much !  " 

The  American  flushed  with  quick  sharp  modesty. 
For  a  breath,  mentally  but  deeply,  he  accused  him- 
self of  having  talked  too  big.  He  felt  almost  as  if 
he  had  been  bluffing.  Then  the  ardor  and  hunger 


194  THE  WOLF-CUB 

of  Quesada's  hope  struck  him.  He  shook  his  head 
sadly. 

"I  wish  I  were,"  he  said  with  regret  and  genuine 
longing.  "But  all  I  know  about  cholera  and  such 
plagues,  Jacinto,  is  what  I  learned  in  hygiene  at 
college.  I  know,  for  instance,  that  what  you  folk 
do  is  all  right,  but  not  enough.  You  do  not  go  in 
for  segregation  of  the  sick,  hot  baths,  or  opiates. 
You  do  not  positively  destroy  all  soiled  clothes  and 
rags.  You  bury  the  noisome  excreta  in  the  same 
ground  through  which  flows  your  water  supply,  or 
you  cast  it  over  a  cliff  as  a  spawning-ground  for 
flies.  I  shouldn't  wonder  but  you  bury  the  in- 
fectious dead !  " 

"That  is  according  to  our  religion,"  said  the  ban- 
dolero simply,  as  if  mouthing  an  irrefutable  answer. 
"The  men  of  the  good  Dios  have  consecrated  a  cer- 
tain space  of  earth  and  there  our  dead  sleep  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Church  and  the  Espiritu  Santo." 

Carson  shrugged  his  broad  level  shoulders  in  a 
sort  of  helplessness,  then  asked,  "Where  is  this  cem- 
etery?" 

"Above—" 

"Where  it  may  infect  the  water  ere  it  reaches 
you!  Oh,  you  have  no  sanitation  here !  This  is  as 
bad  as  India !  "  He  looked  up  and  down  the  un- 
even street,  at  the  huddle  of  cabanas  to  either  side, 
in  incontainable  disrelish  and  vast  pity. 

"Senor  Carson,"  said  Quesada  impulsively,  "you 
and  Don  Manuel  and  his  cuadrilla  have  done  a 
wrong  in  pursuing  me.  Down  before  the  shrine  of 
the  Christ  of  the  Pass,  I  showed  yon  how  sincere 
were  my  motives  in  carrying  off  Felicidad,  how 


THE  WOLF-CUB  195 

great  a  wrong  you  had  done  me  in  becoming  sleuth- 
hounds  of  chase.  But  now  that  you  are  here,  there 
is  opportunity  to  right  that  wrong.  We  need  your 
aid  imperatively !  Help  me,  Senor  Americano !  " 
he  exhorted  impassionately.  "Help  me  and  my 
poor  serranos  with  what  you  know!  Save  Felici- 
dad  and  the  others !  Down  the  pestilence !  " 

The  American  retreated  a  step  before  the  fervor 
of  his  plea. 

"But  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  enough !  "  he 
protested  deprecatingly.  "I'd  understand  how  to 
clean  up  this  barrio,  of  course;  but  in  handling  the 
disease,  I'd  have  to  work  all  from  memory,  vague 
memory !  I'm  not  a  doctor — " 

"Don  Juan,"  interposed  Morales,  valorously  step- 
ping into  the  breach,  "Senor  Quesada  has  well  said 
that  we  did  him  a  great  wrong  in  thus  hounding 
him ;  here  is  a  pressing  opportunity  to  right  that 
wrong.  It  is  an  act  of  Christian  charity  to  aid  the 
poor  serranos.  They  are  dying  off  like  flies  in  a 
frost.  They  need  you.  Help  them,  Senor  Carson ; 
help  them,  and  my  cuadrilla  and  I  will  be  yours  to 
command!  Whatever  measures  you  find  necessary 
to  rid  this  pueblo  of  its  scourge,  that  will  we  under- 
take to  carry  out!  " 

"And  I,"  exclaimed  the  bandolero,  with  an  ardor 
deeper  than  any  eagerness,  "I  will  go  down  these 
mountains  to  the  casa  of  Torreblanca  y  Moncada 
outside  Granada.  Don  Jaime  is  almost  my  foster 
father ;  I  lived  in  his  house  once,  and  I  know  every 
nook  and  cranny  of  it.  From  the  remnants  of  the 
hidalgo  doctor's  library,  I  shall  secure,  to  aid  your 
memory,  some  medical  book  containing  a  full  expo- 


196  THE  WOLF-CUB 

sition  of  cholera.  I  shall  read  it  and  then  bring 
you—" 

"You  can  read?" 

Said  Quesada  with  a  restrained  but  natural  touch 
of  pride,  "My  mother  taught  me  letters  when  I  was 
but  five.  My  poor  mother  attended,  when  a  child, 
the  convent  of  Santa  Ursola  in  Granada." 

With  no  less  zeal  but  more  earnest  calmness,  he 
went  on : 

"What  medicines  the  medical  book  tells  me  you 
shall  need,  I  shall  get  for  you  from  the  chests  and 
racks  of  the  senor  doctor.  I  shall  leave  word  with 
old  Pedro  or  the  childish  Teresa  that,  immediately 
Don  Jaime  returns,  he  is  to  come  up  here.  All  we 
ask,  Senor  Carson,  all  we  expect,  is  that  you  do 
what  good  you  can  until  the  hidalgo  doctor  himself 
arrives.  Mediante  Dios,  you  can  do  much !  " 

Intense  longing,  a  hungry  expectancy  trembled 
beseechingly  in  the  eyes  of  each  man.  They  felt 
suddenly  inferior  to  Carson,  dependent  on  his 
knowledge,  in  sore  need  of  his  aid.  He  could  not 
kill  that  earnest  hope  and  sincere,  almost  pitiful 
trust  in  him.  With  characteristic  decision,  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"By  gad,  I'll  do  it!" 

And  in  Spanish  fashion,  Morales  added,  "With 
the  help  of  the  Dios  hombre !  " 

The  Frenchman,  listening  avidly  to  all,  only 
smiled  once  more  his  calculating  and  very  superior 
smile. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

EVEN  as  his  father  had  hurried  down  the  moun- 
tainside many  years  before,  even  so  Jacinto  Quesada 
wended  his  descending  way,  that  morning,  on  an 
enterprise  of  forlorn  desperation.  He  was  bound 
for  the  casa  of  Torreblanca  y  Moncada  outside 
Granada.  He  did  not  wait  to  borrow  one  of  the 
village  mules  which  the  serranos  used  to  sleigh  their 
cords  of  pine  down  to  the  lower  torrents  and  to 
carry  their  panniers  of  white-flowered  manzanilla 
into  the  towns  of  the  plains.  His  long  moun- 
taineer's legs  were  swifter  to  move  and  even  more 
tireless  than  the  slow  hoofs  of  any  stupid  borrico. 
His  descent  proved  far  more  rapid  than  had  been 
the  arduous  climb  of  the  nine  cabalgadores. 

He  came,  in  the  noontide,  to  the  boulder-strewn, 
gorse-whelmed  pocket  of  the  Christ  of  the  Pass. 
He  paused  neither  to  rest  nor  to  eat.  In  the  moon 
of  that  evening,  he  found  himself  in  the  forested 
dell  at  the  foot  of  that  dark  green  corry  which 
snaked  over  a  shoulder  of  the  sierras.  Here  in  the 
night,  almost  a  week  before,  Aguilina  the  guide  had 
deserted  Morales  and  his  men. 

Quesada  turned  aside  from  his  decurrent  course. 
He  broke  through  the  moon-filtering  brush  of  the 
dell.  He  waded  the  nearby  frothing  and  echoing 
mountain  stream.  All  the  while,  louder  than  the 
splash  and  chop  of  the  boisterous  rivulet,  he  ululated 


198  THE  WOLF-CUB 

shrilly  in  the  mournful  manner  of  the  Spanish  she- 
wolf. 

Presently,  from  the  underwood  beyond,  came  an 
answering  call.  It  was  a  singular  bird  note,  not 
much  the  ordinary  hoot  of  an  owl,  but  more  a  growl 
and  something  of  a  gruff  scream.  It  was  the  hoot 
of  the  eagle  owl. 

Quesada  pressed  forward.  He  came  out,  a  mo- 
ment later,  upon  a  tiny  clearing,  saffron  in  the 
moonlight.  To  one  side  stood  a  log  hut,  its  chinks 
plastered  with  adobe.  Crowded  in  the  open  door- 
way were  three  men.  They  were  his  dorados, 
Ignacio  Garcia,  Pio  Estrada,  and  Rafael  Perez. 

To  judge  from  this,  Perez  had  not  fled  so  far, 
after  all.  The  other  two  must  have  recently  come 
up.  Perez  lacked  altogether  now  the  yellow  scar 
that  had  so  hideously  distinguished  Aguilino  the 
guide. 

Quesada  showed  no  surprise.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  thoroughly  expected  to  find  them  there. 

"Hola,  mis  dorados!"  he  called,  as  he  stepped 
into  the  clearing.  "Bring  forward  one  of  your 
nags." 

"But  the  booty! "  objected  Rafael  Perez,  whilom 
Aguilino. 

"Si;  the  sacks  of  mail  and  jewels  and  money!  " 

"Do  we  not  go  forward  to  the  cache  now,"  asked 
Garcia,  "and  split  the  loot  between  us  ?  " 

"Disparate!  I  have  no  time.  The  plunder  is 
cached  with  our  cacique,  Dionisio  Almazarron,  in 
the  foothills  of  the  Sierra  Morena.  Go  you  there, 
you  three,  and  take  it  all.  But  alto!  first  get  me 
one  of  your  cobs  to  ride  down  into  Granada." 


THE  WOLF-CUB  199 

No  one  of  the  three  men  moved.  Said  Pio 
Estrada  in  an  odd  voice : 

"Ah,  you  do  not  care  for  this  little  treasure,  eh, 
maestro?  Times  have  been  good  to  you  in  Spain. 
Don  Jacinto  has  taken  to  enterprising  abroad,  single- 
handed,  and  accomplishing  marvelous  and  audacious 
feats.  It  is  true  indeed  that  Don  Jacinto  is  brave, 
brave  as  the  very  God  himself !  " 

Quesada  did  not  understand  the  significance  of 
the  words,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  their  in- 
tent. There  was  that  in  the  tone  of  Estrada's 
voice  and  in  the  fact  that  the  men  still  stood  un- 
moving  in  the  doorway,  in  sullen  disobedience  to 
his  command,  which  spelled  sedition  and  revolt. 
Slowly  from  his  holster,  Quesada  lifted  his  huge 
long-barreled  revolver. 

"My  golden  ones,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  do  not 
hear  well  in  the  moonlight.  Would  you  understand 
better  the  detonation  of  a  pistol?"  He  smiled, 
showing  his  clean  white  teeth. 

The  grim  jest  of  his  words,  the  set  of  his  long 
jaw,  the  gleam  of  eyes  and  teeth  and  steely  re- 
volver, had  a  decided  effect  upon  the  men.  Like 
cats  frightened  away  by  the  Spanish  scat,  zape !  they 
stretched  their  legs  around  the  cabin  and  out  of 
sight. 

Within  a  trice,  they  were  back,  each  leading  a 
wiry  rough-coated  pony.  Quesada  selected  the 
most  mettlesome  and  leaped  into  the  deep  saddle. 

"Rafael  Perez,"  he  instructed,  turning  partly 
round,  "you  shall  remain  here.  Let  the  others  go 
for  the  loot.  You  watch  the  road.  Men  of  the 
Guardia  Civil  will  be  riding  the  hills.  When  I  pass 


200  THE  WOLF-CUB 

here  again,  in  returning  from  Granada,  I  shall  hoot 
like  the  eagle  owl  and  you  will  answer  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  wolf  bitch.  Let  me  know,  then,  if  any 
policemen  come  thr.  way.  By  this  time,  the  affair 
of  the  Seville-to-Madrid  must  be  loudly  bruited 
abroad  in  Spain.  I  should  not  wonder  if  some  two 
Guardias  Civiles  will  ride  over  this  corry  in  an  at- 
tempt to  capture  me  in  my  own  village." 

Perez  grunted  in  ill-concealed  distaste  of  the  task. 
Ignacio  Garcia  spoke  out. 

"There  are  many  other  things  loudly  bruited 
abroad  in  Spain,  these  days,  maestro  mio !  " 

Quesada  swung  completely  around  in  the  saddle 
to  face  the  sullen  trio. 

"Carajo!  Do  you  think  to  trifle  with  Jacinto 
Quesada!  What  is  all  this  muttering  going  on 
here?" 

Garcia  shrugged  his  shoulders  noncommittally 
and  a  bit  fearfully ;  the  erstwhile  Aguilino  remained 
taciturn  and  lowering  of  dark  brow;  but  with  a 
strange  audacity  that  was  almost  insolence,  Estrada 
ventured : 

"Oh,  you  will  soon  learn,  Don  Jacinto  of  the 
high  hand !  " 

Quesada  cursed  them  angrily  for  the  whelps  of 
dogs;  then  swung  round  in  the  saddle,  dug  his 
heels  into  the  horse's  flanks,  and  headed  full-tilt 
through  the  brush.  Once  back  in  the  trampled 
band  of  heath  and  brambles,  which  was  the  road 
through  the  dell,  he  sped  the  nag  at  a  gallop  up  the 
dark  green  corry. 

But  topping  the  rise  and  dropping  down  on  the 
other  side,  he  reined  in  the  cob  the  better  to  recon- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  201 

sider  the  sullen  manner  and  incomprehensible  words 
of  his  trio  of  dorados. 

"The  knaves  have  been  bitten  by  some  foul  plan," 
he  surmised.  "It  is  not  that  they  intend  to  rob  me 
of  all  share  in  the  booty.  Seguramente,  no!  I 
told  them  they  were  welcome  to  the  entire  lot. 
Something  else  is  afoot,  God  knows  what!  " 

Coming  out  of  the  mournful  Pass  of  the  Blessed 
Trinity,  some  time  later,  he  took  that  one  of  the 
three  roads  which  diverged  most  sharply  from  the 
course  pursued  by  the  cabalgadores  in  climbing  up. 
After  a  good  time  more,  he  rode  through  the  myrtle 
and  orange  trees  of  the  Alpujarras  and,  following 
the  Darro,  slanted  down  toward  the  Moorish  city 
of  Granada,  gleaming  white  on  the  sides  of  the 
hills. 

A  few  miles  outside  the  city,  upon  the  great  hasped 
door  of  the  crumbling  adobe  casa  of  Torreblanca  y 
Moncada,  Quesada  knocked  echoingly.  After  an 
appreciable  space,  the  little  mullion  window  in  the 
door  was  opened,  and  an  old  white-haired  man 
peered  out  with  bright  eyes.  He  was  Pedro,  the 
butler. 

"Ah,  Mother  of  God !  "  he  exclaimed,  a  strange 
quavering  note  in  his  voice.  "It  is  Jacinto  Quesada 
about  whom  all  Spain  talks !  " 

"I  bring  news  of  the  little  Felicidad." 

"God  grant  it  is  good  news !  " 

"Good  and  bad.     She  is  safe  in  my  native  pueblo,  \ 
but  she  is  sick.     She  is  sick  of  the  same  disease  that 
killed  off  my  own  poor  mother  only  a  few  days  ago. 
It  is  a  plague,  Tio  Pedro.     The  whole  village  is 
sick  with  the  dread  cholera." 


202  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  old  servant  ejaculated  in  horror. 

"It  is  the  hand  of  God,  Jacintito!"  he  went  on 
with  warning  sententiousness.  "It  is  a  scourge  of 
God  striking  down  those  about  you  because  of  the 
terrible  vile  things  you  have  been  doing,  these  last 
nights,  throughout  the  peninsula.  Take  heed, 
Jacintito  mio;  take  heed  ere  it  is  too  late,  and  all 
you  love  are  dead !  " 

There  was  something  in  the  old  man's  words 
which  sounded  startlingly  and  disagreeably  reminis- 
cent of  the  three  dorados,  their  sullenness,  their 
mutterings. 

"Disparate !  "  exclaimed  Quesada.  "What  non- 
sense is  this?  Just  tell  me,  tio;  is  Don  Jaime  still 
away  ? " 

The  white  head  nodded  energetically  behind  the 
mullion  window. 

"Si;  seguramente,  si!  Ever  since  that  affair  of 
the  Seville-to-Madrid,  the  senor  doctor  has  been 
scouring  the  plains  and  hills  of  La  Mancha  for  his 
stolen  daughter  and  all  his  money.  Ah,  Don  Jaime 
is  indeed  a  hard  man.  God  pity  Felicidad  when  he 
finds  her!" 

"I  come,"  said  Quesada  brusquely,  tiring  of  the 
old  man's  continual  whine — "I  come  to  get  medi- 
cines from  the  hidalgo  doctor's  chest  in  order  to 
combat  the  pestilence.  Once  Don  Jaime  returns, 
you  will  tell  him  of  our  plight." 

Came  abruptly  the  grating  of  hastily  drawn  bolts ; 
the  heavy  door  swung  in. 

"You  know  the  house;  it  is  yours,"  said  old 
Pedro  with  true  Spanish  hospitality. 

The  bandolero  entered  the  gloom  of  the  corridor. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  203 

"I  shall  go  to  find  Teresa,"  added  Pedro,  as  he  re- 
bolted  the  door.  "We  shall  kneel,  and  say  prayers 
for  the  repose  of  your  mama's  soul,  and  for  the 
quick  recovery  of  the  little  nina,  Felicidad,  and  the 
other  sick  ones.  When  the  senor  doctor  returns, 
I  shall  tell  him  all  that  you  said.  And  when  he 
rides  away  up  the  steep  goat  paths  to  your  barrio, 
we  shall  plead  with  Mary,  the  Compassionate  and 
the  Compassionating,  that  his  granite  heart  may 
soften  with  pity  for  his  little  daughter.  .  .  ." 

As  he  left  the  whining  voice  of  the  old  butler 
behind  him  and  went  through  the  long  echoing  dusky 
corridors,  an  orientation  took  place  within  Jacinto 
Quesada.  Back  through  the  years  he  went;  back 
to  the  day  when,  a  scrawny  little  mountaineer's 
bantling,  he  had  put  his  puny  hand  into  the  great 
harsh  fist  of  the  hidalgo  doctor  and  come  down  the 
mountains  to  the  decayed,  lizard-haunted,  and  dingy 
casa. 

No  longer  was  the  muggy  mansion  the  sumptuous 
palace  it  had  seemed  to  his  ten-year-old  eyes.  And 
yet  every  spacious  poverty-bare  room  that  he  passed 
and  glimpsed  was  quick  and  instant  to  him  with 
memories.  They  were  memories  all  of  one  sort. 
Memories  of  a  pretty  little  girl  with  golden  hair 
and  legs  round  and  pudgy  as  his  own  would  have 
been,  on  that  time,  had  his  father  lived  and  pros- 
pered. Unconsciously  he  found  himself  pausing  in 
the  gloom  as  if  to  catch  a  note  of  her  rippling  and 
infrequent  laughter. 

The  shadowy  library  seemed  never  so  vast  nor  so 
gloomy  as  now.  Most  of  the  huge  old  sheepskin- 
bound  books  were  gone.  The  voids  in  the  tall 


204  THE  WOLF-CUB 

cases,  rapidly  gathering  dust,  were  as  poignantly 
reminiscent  as  the  empty  chair  of  one  that  has 
died. 

The  bandolero  went  round  the  walls  until  he 
came  upon  that  which  he  sought.  It  was  a  yellow- 
leaved  volume,  lettered  in  Gothic  type,  that  was  yet 
not  so  old.  It  contained  much  data  on  the  various 
forms  of  cholera,  its  causes,  symptoms,  stages,  treat- 
ment, dissemination  and  prevention. 

Running  his  eye  down  the  columns  of  print, 
Quesada  discovered  that  he  would  need  to  carry 
many  drugs,  preparations,  and  aperient  and  as- 
tringent medicines.  At  that  rate,  the  ancient  vol- 
ume would  prove  an  added  burden.  Quickly  he 
decided  to  tear  the  descriptive  pages  from  the  vol- 
ume. They  were  all  that  was  desired. 

But  of  a  sudden,  he  was  arrested  in  his  vandal 
task.  Nothing  real  and  tangible  halted  him;  only 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  screams  of  a  child  were 
driving  like  knives  into  his  heart.  He  remembered, 
then  and  all  at  once,  that  long- forgotten  day  when 
Felicidad,  innocently  naughty,  had  torn  some  of 
the  richly  illumined  pages  from  the  rare  old  books, 
and  cut  them  into  paper  dolls,  and  been  lashed  un- 
mercifully with  a  short  whip  of  horsehide  by  her 
father. 

He  saw  himself,  a  lad  of  ten  years,  rendered 
desperate  by  her  screams  as  only  a  child  becomes 
desperate.  He  saw  himself  charging  at  the  ter- 
rible hidalgo,  screaming  like  a  little  animal,  tearing 
at  the  doctor's  trousers  with  his  ringer  nails,  trying 
to  leap  up  and  upon  him.  He  felt  the  fall  of  the 
quirta  upon  his  head.  It  was  acutely  stinging  as  in 


THE  WOLF-CUB  205 

reality  His  jaws  snapped  together;  they  snapped 
together  just  as  they  had  snapped,  in  that  dim  past 
day,  upon  the  doctor's  wrist.  And  a  grim  satis- 
faction tingled  the  edges  of  his  locked  teeth.  It 
was  for  all  the  world  as  if,  again,  his  teeth  had 
sunk  into  flesh! 

"Ah,  you  son  of  a  mangy  she-wolf!  "  sounded  in 
his  brain.  "How's  the  wolf-cub  to-day?" 

He  looked  quickly  about  him.  There  on  the  wall 
he  saw  that  which  he  had  not  noticed  before.  A 
painting  of  the  doctor — Don  Jaime  himself,  his  hair 
whitened  by  years  and  by  sorrow,  and  his  gray 
eyes  glinting  out  from  his  deep  swarth  face  like 
remote  stars  in  an  intolerant  heaven. 

"Todopoderoso  Dio' !  "  groaned  Quesada,  shud- 
dering. "Pity  Felicidad  indeed  when  he  finds  her !  " 

With  a  kind  of  desperation,  in  one  jerk  he  tore 
the  desired  pages  from  the  book,  then  hied  himself 
quickly  out  of  the  room. 

"It  is  a  haunt  of  ghosts !  "  he  said  almost  supersti- 
tiously. 

He  entered  the  doctor's  laboratory.  Here,  from 
chests  and  racks  and  trays,  he  collected  the  relieving 
and  remedial  agents  praised  in  the  torn  pages — 
opium  pills,  preparations  of  starch  and  laudanum, 
ammonia,  salt,  powdered  aromatic  chalk,  astringents 
and  laxatives.  Down  in  the  cellar,  he  secured  some 
cobwebbed  bottles  of  old  brandy  and  clear  wine. 

He  made  several  trips  to  his  shaggy  pony,  pick- 
eted outside  in  the  road.  He  secured  what  he  had 
gathered  in  the  canvas  packs  slung  from  the  saddle. 
He  left  without  once  meeting  the  aged  Teresa  or 
again  bothering  the  butler,  Uncle  Pedro. 


206  THE  WOLF-CUB 

He  returned  up  the  hills  through  the  passes  and 
green  cor.ries.  He  shoved  the  horse  ahead  at  a 
persistent  canter,  yet  such  was  the  grade  and  such 
the  growing  leg-weariness  of  the  cob  that  slow  days 
were  consumed  in  the  journeying.  At  last,  in  the 
dim  fresco  of  a  certain  nightfall,  he  found  himself 
back  in  that  forested  dell  where}  he  had  commanded 
Rafael  Perez  to  remain  on  guard. 

But  no  chill  ululations  answered  his  imitations  of 
the  hoot  of  the  eagle  owl.  He  rode  through  the 
brush  and  across  the  stream.  Back  in  the  clear- 
ing, the  door  of  the  log  cabin  was  swinging  for- 
lornly in  the  rising  wind;  within,  was  only  dark 
obscurity  and  emptiness.  Rafael  Perez  had  fled 
with  the  other  two! 

Once  again  Quesada  recalled  the  sullen  manner 
and  incomprehensible  words  of  the  trio  when  he 
last  had  met  them.  He  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"Something  surely  is  afoot!"  he  murmured. 
"They  mutter  against  me,  they  disobey  me  with  im- 
punity. The  dogs  of  ladrones,  they  may  have 
turned  traitor!  Instead  of  keeping  an  eye  on  the 
road,  Perez  may  have  put  the  Guardia  Civil  on 
my  track.  Porvida,  it  will  go  hard  with  them  if 
such  proves  true!  They'll  never  live  to  get  the 
reward.  Dios  hombre,  I  swear  it !  " 

His  temper  sharpened  and  embittered  by  the  dis- 
covery, he  vented  it  in  harsh  kicks  against  his 
pony's  flanks.  The  wearied  nag  extended  itself. 
By  late  dawn,  Quesada  rode  into  the  gorge  from 
which  the  goat-path  looped  up  to  the  empested  vil- 
lage. 

Presently,  as  they  wound  through  the  gorge,  un- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  207 

usual  signs  of  alertness  began  to  show  in  the  tired 
cob.  He  lifted  his  head,  pricked  up  his  ears.  He 
was  just  about  to  neigh  when  the  bandolero,  on 
the  watch,  leaned  over  and  clamped  his  hand  tightly 
upon  his  nostrils.  From  aheaJ,  on  the  instant, 
breathed  into  Quesada's  ears  the  neigh  of  recogni- 
tion of  another  horse. 

The  bandolero  leaped  from  the  saddle.  With  one 
hand  firm  on  the  muzzle  of  the  pony,  the  other  on 
the  butt  of  the  long-barreled  revolver  protruding 
from  his  holster,  tensely  he  stood  waiting  and 
hearkening. 

Into  his  nostrils  drifted  the  acrid  smell  of  a  wood 
fire.  He  heard  a  clipping  staccato  sound  as  of 
some  one  chopping  faggots.  He  saw,  some  hun- 
dred feet  ahead,  a  thin  whitish  smoke  voluting  up 
from  the  green  tops  of  the  pines  and  alders,  and 
merging  into  the  fog  cloak  above.  There  was  a 
camp  of  men  in  the  gorge. 

His  vague  suspicions  of  the  three  dorados  con- 
gealed into  quick  and  firm  convictions. 

"It  is  the  Guardia  Civil,"  he  surmised.  And  he 
swore ;  "By  the  Nails  of  Christ !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

QUESADA  led  his  horse  back  around  the  bend  and 
out  of  sounding  distance.  He  picketed  him  behind 
a  feathery  smoke-plant  up  the  side  of  the  gorge. 
Then  he  stole  forward  toward  the  camp. 

He  caught  now,  as  he  drew  near,  the  clatter  of 
tin  as  of  men  preparing  breakfast,  the  tempting 
aroma  of  coffee,  and  the  hot  sizzle  of  frying  meat. 
Creeping  through  the  underwood  on  hands  and 
knees,  silent  as  a  cat  of  the  wilds,  he  came  to  where 
he  could  peer  through  an  entangle  of  white  buck- 
thorn and  genista,  and  out  into  a  trampled  space 
about  an  alder  tree. 

There  were  two  men  in  the  trampled  space. 
They  wore  the  blue,  red-trimmed  uniform  of  the 
Guardia  Civil. 

The  one  holding  a  blackened  frying  pan  over  the 
small  blaze  of  faggots  was  facing  toward  Quesada. 
His  uniform  but  poorly  fitted  his  squat  frame  and 
broadly  uncouth  shoulders;  it  showed  palpable 
signs  of  having  been  slept  in  the  night  before.  His 
heavy-jawed,  black-mustached  face  was  sweating 
copiously  from  the  hot  nearness  to  the  fire ;  he  had 
tossed  his  tricorn  police  hat  off  his  unkempt  head 
and  into  the  weeds  behind;  he  looked,  forsooth, 
more  the  type  of  brigand  than  ever  did  Quesada 
himself.  He  was  the  apelike  gendarme,  Pascual 
Montara. 

The  other,  with  back  toward  Quesada,  was  busy- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  209 

ing  about  the  wiry,  coarse-haired  ponies  to  one  side. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  his  uniform  as  trim  on  his 
military  figure  as  if  he  had  not  spent  the  night  on 
the  ground,  and  his  polished  three-corner  hat  set 
snugly  on  his  head,  white  linen  sun-shield  behind,  in 
thorough  preparation  for  the  day's  work.  As  he 
currycombed  and  brushed  the  ponies,  there  was  visi- 
ble on  one  sleeve  the  red-braided  chevron  of  a 
sergeant. 

"Hola,  Don  Esteban,  mi  sargento!"  called  Pas- 
cual  at  the  fire.  He  put  the  frying  pan  down  upon 
the  trampled  grass  and  lifted  the  coffee  pot  from  its 
bed  in  the  coals. 

The  tall  man  turned  about  and,  in  full  view  to 
the  peeping  Quesada,  came  striding  toward  the  fire. 
His  hair,  closely  clipped,  showed  white  beneath  his 
hat ;  yet  there  was  in  him  no  sign  of  the  weakness  of 
age.  He  had  a  short,  knife-sharp  white  beard,  a 
face  as  lean  and  haughty  as  a  griffon  vulture's. 
He  was  Sergeant  Esteban  Alvarado,  father  of  the 
lover  of  the  Gypsy  Paquita,  Miguel  Alvarado. 

The  two  men  squatted  cross-legged  upon  the 
ground  opposite  each  other,  and  ate  and  drank  in 
silence.  But  Montara,  munching  prodigiously, 
kept  continually  shaking  his  ugly  head.  Finally  he 
said: 

"Seguramente,  yes!     It  is  the  wild-goose  chase." 

"Pascual  Montara,"  said  the  old  man  severely, 
"your  talk  shows  you  unfaithful  to  your  duty." 

"Duty,  za!  It  is  my  head  I  use,  Don  Esteban. 
Did  not  the  Americano  tell  us  last  night,  from  the 
great  rock  above,  that  the  village  is  in  the  throes  of 
the  cholera?  We  cannot  go  into  the  barrio  for 


210  THE  WOLF-CUB 

fear  of  taking  the  disease,  and  they  will  not  leave 
the  pueblo  for  fear  of  spreading  it  about  the  coun- 
tryside. 

"We  have  done  our  duty,  mi  sargento.  We 
have  found  the  American,  the  great  Morales,  and 
his  whole  cuadrilla.  They  are  safe.  And  they 
can  please  themselves  when  they  want  to  come  down. 
Valgate  Dios,  it  is  not  in  our  instructions  to  drag 
them  into  civilization  by  the  hair  of  their  head!  " 

"Muy  bueno.  But  it  is  in  our  instructions  to  cap- 
ture and  kill  Jacinto  Ouesada — " 

"Who  is  not  in  Minas  de  la  Sierra.  I  tell  you, 
Don  Esteban,  that  Americano  does  not  lie.  This  is 
Quesada's  native  barrio,  true;  but  he  is  no  friend 
of  Jacinto  Quesada.  Jacinto  Quesada  robbed  him 
in  that  affair  of  the  Seville-to-Madrid ;  for  weeks  he 
has  been  pursuing  the  Wolf  through  the  sierras. 
He  says  Quesada  is  not  in  the  village." 

The  sergeant  chewed  his  meat  in  silence.  It  was 
a  dour  silence,  as  if  he  refused  to  argue,  yet  was 
not  convinced  by  the  logic  of  the  other.  Beneath 
it,  there  seemed  an  undercurrent  of  imperial  anger. 

Opening  his  mouth  wide  as  he  ate,  Montara 
looked  at  him  sharply,  from  under  black  bushy 
brows. 

"Must  I  argue  as  I  did  last  night?  "  he  asked  ag- 
gressively. "You  say  that  \ve  have  them  all  bagged, 
including  Quesada,  in  this  eagle's  nest.  But  I  say 
Quesada  is  not  there.  He  has  not  been  up  in  this 
barrio  for  months.  He  has  been  swinging  like  a 
pendulum  back  and  forth  across  the  two  Spains. 
My  soul,  he  is  like  ten  men  for  being  in  more  places 
than  one.  If  he  were  up  here,  how  can  you  account 


THE  WOLF-CUB  21 1 

for  that  affair  of  the  Despenaperros  over  three 
weeks  ago?  " 

"I  must  admit  that,"  qualified  the  old  man  con- 
descendingly. "My  son  Miguel  and  I  were  sta- 
tioned in  the  Pass  at  the  time.  Miguelito  said  he 
was  sure  it  was  Quesada  who  stuck-up  the  automo- 
bile and  beat  to  death  the  rich  Englishman.  The 
Englishman's  pale  wife  described  the  bandolero.  It 
was  indeed  Quesada.  But  that  outrage,  coming  on 
top  of  the  holdup  of  the  Seville-to-Madrid,  must 
surely  have  caused  the  outlaw  to  seek  refuge  in  his 
village." 

"But  it  didn't,  Don  Esteban.  You've  heard  of 
that  happening  in  the  Alameda  of  Valladolid  on  a 
night  two  weeks  ago.  While  the  people,  bent  on 
enjoying  the  open-air  cinema,  were  all  gathered  on 
the  grass  in  the  hot  night,  he  appeared  before  the 
large  white  sheet  and,  pointing  two  guns  at  them, 
brazenly  called  out  that  he  was  Jacinto  Quesada. 
Then,  while  the  members  of  the  civic  orchestra  were 
playing  some  outrageous  gypsy  tune  in  obedience 
to  his  command,  he  slipped  quietly  away.  I  can- 
not account  for  it  myself.  He  gathered  no  gold 
from  the  crowd.  But  sacred  blood !  it  was  bold." 

"It  was  too  bold  for  me  to  believe,"  objected 
Alvarado,  shaking  his  -head.  "Tut,  it  is  but  a  story 
of  the  people.  They  are  forever  building  wonder- 
ful adventures  and  sentimental  romances  about  these 
hungry  dogs  of  bandoleros.  One  would  think  that 
the  wolves  were  gentlemen  and  fine  heroes,  and  we 
of  the  Guardia  Civil  only  ratty  red-eyed  ferrets !  " 

Pascual  vehemently  nodded  his  heavy  head. 

"I  know,  I  know !  "  he  agreed  heartily.     "It  is  no 


212  THE  WOLF-CUB 

longer  any  honor  to  wear  the  uniform  of  the  police 
in  Spain.  But  what  think  you  now  of  my  argu- 
ment, Don  Esteban?  Need  I  recite  that  shocking 
affair  of  the  Plaza  de  Toros  of  Seville?  The 
glamorous  Moors  of  Spain  do  not  make  up  stories 
about  their  bandoleros  robbing  brave  matadors  in 
the  House  of  God.  It  is  a  lizard's  trick.  Since 
Quesada  stuck-up  the  popular  espada,  Lagarfijo,  in 
the  bullfighters'  chapel  of  Seville,  all  Spain  has  been 
stunned  by  the  sacrilege.  And  that  was  but  one 
short  week  gone — " 

Jacinto  Quesada  drew  back  from  the  entangled 
buckthorn  and  genista.  His  brow  was  ruffled  as 
a  mountain  stream.  So  this  was  the  meaning  of 
his  dorados'  sullen  insinuations!  Come  to  think  of 
it,  even  old  Pedro  down  in  Granada  had  been  struck 
aghast  at  sight  of  him  whom  he  had  known  from 
a  boy. 

"Ah,  Mother  of  God !  "  old  Pedro  had  exclaimed, 
a  strange  quavering  note  in  his  voice.  "It  is 
Jacinto  Quesada  about  whom  all  Spain  talks ! " 
And  he  had  added,  upon  hearing  of  the  plague: 
"It  is  the  hand  of  God,  Jacintito!  It  is  a  scourge 
of  God  striking  down  those  about  you  because  of  the 
terrible  vile  things  you  have  been  doing,  these  last 
nights,  throughout  the  peninsula !  " 

Some  unknown  was  sticking-up  persons  on  the 
road  and  in  far-off  alamedas,  and  then,  with  blus- 
ter and  insane  braggadocio,  announcing  he  was 
Jacinto  Quesada !  The  fool  had  cold  murder  in  his 
bowels!  He  had  killed  a  foreigner,  an  English- 
man. He  slayed  like  a  ferocious  beast  or  a  crazed 
man.  And  he  had  abused  the  sanctity  of  the  chapel 


THE  WOLF-CUB  213 

of  the  bullfighters  in  the  Plaza  de  Toros  of  Seville. 
The  thing  was  unheard  of.  It  was  sacrilege! 

"By  the  wounds  of  Christ! "  swore  Ouesada 
softly.  "The  fellow  is  odious  and  detestable.  And 
all  his  vile  ordure  is  flung  at  my  head.  The  crea- 
ture is  braiding  a  noose  for  my  neck !  " 

Out  in  the  trampled  space  about  the  alder  tree, 
the  sergeant's  voice  had  risen  with  a  peremptory 
note. 

"Do  not  stay  here,  Pascual  Montara!  It  is 
against  all  the  code  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  but  zut! 
ride  away  without  me,  and  you  please.  I  stay  here. 
Understand,  hombre;  I  stay  here!  Every  wolf  has 
his  lair,  every  bandolero  his  home.  This  barrio 
above  is  Quesada's  home.  In  a  week  or  a  month,  he 
must  return  here.  I  shall  wait  that  week  or  that 
month.  He  can  come  only  this  way.  When  he 
comes  this  way,  by  the  Life !  I  shall  rid  Spain  for- 
ever of  his  baneful  presence!  " 

Jacinto  Quesada  stole  back  around  the  bend  to  his 
picketed  horse.  From  behind  the  cantle  of  the  sad- 
dle, he  removed  those  canvas  packs  which  contained 
the  drugs,  preparations,  and  liquors  he  had  gathered 
at  the  doctor's  casa.  He  unwound  the  reins  from 
about  a  branch  of  the  sumach  bush  and  tied  them 
loosely  to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle.  He  broke  off 
a  hairy  flower  stalk  from  the  smoke-plant.  Then, 
with  an  eye  to  quietude,  carefully  he  led  the  pony 
down  the  brushy  side  of  the  gorge. 

Once  in  the  dust-coated  road  which  wound 
through  the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  he  faced  the  pony 
down  the  way  he  had  come  and  inserted,  under  the 
brows  of  the  saddle  against  the  spine,  the  setule  of 


214  THE  WOLF-CUB 

flower  stalk.  Immediately  the  animal,  irritated  out 
of  his  weariness,  began  fidgeting,  flicking  his  tail, 
snapping  his  head  round  on  either  side,  baring  his 
long  yellow  teeth  and  crinkling  again  and  again 
the  skin  of  his  back. 

Quesada  stepped  to  one  side.  With  his  open 
hand,  he  struck  the  horse  a  resounding  thwack  upon 
the  rump.  The  pony  leaped  forward,  the  bristle 
of  flower  stalk  painfully  rubbing  his  spine.  Ere  he 
could  recover  from  the  shock  of  the  blow  and  pause 
to  lessen  the  aggravating  pricking  under  the  sad- 
dle, Quesada  snapped  out  his  revolver  and  dis- 
charged it  in  the  air  behind  him — bang,  bang!  Ex- 
asperated and  thoroughly  frightened,  the  horse  fled 
precipitantly  down  the  road. 

WTiile  the  winding  gutter  of  gorge  detonated  with 
the  hoof-clatter  of  the  racing  horse  and  while  the 
rock  walls  flung  back  and  forth,  like  sounding- 
boards,  the  sharp  metallic  explosions  of  the  pistol, 
Jacinto  Quesada  bounded  up  the  brushy  side  to 
where,  behind  the  feathery  wig-plant,  he  had  flung 
the  canvas  saddlebags. 

He  was  none  too  quick.  Like  a  louder  echo  of 
the  echoes  sounded  up  the  gorge,  of  a  sudden,  the 
crang  of  a  carbine ;  then  the  thundering  hoof  beats 
of  horses  careering  down  at  full  tilt;  and  then  the 
voices  of  men  lunging  up  in  the  dread  challenge  and 
command  of  the  police : 

"Alto  a  la  Guardia  Civil!  Halt  for  the  Civil 
Guard!" 

Quesada  crouched  behind  the  whitish-green 
thicket  of  sumach,  and  waited  tense  as  a  trigger  at 
half-cock. 


THE  WOLF-CUB 

Around  the  bend  up  the  road  drove  into  view  like 
a  lean  racing  terrier  a  wiry  rough-coated  pony, 
hoofs  pounding  in  a  quick  rataplan,  barrel  low  to 
the  dust,  and  ears  flattened  sharply  back.  Upright 
in  the  saddle,  a  carbine  across  the  hollow  of  one 
arm,  was  the  tall  sergeant  of  police,  linen  sun-shield 
flying  straight  behind  like  a  white  guidon  snapping 
in  a  wind. 

"Don't  shoot,  Montara !  "  he  called  back  from  an 
eager  keen-edged  face.  "Don't  shoot  till  you  see 
the  hair  on  his  neck !  " 

"Shoot  his  horse !  "  answered  a  roaring  shout. 
"Carajo!  In  all  our  lives,  we  may  never  get  an- 
other such  chance  at  Jacinto  Quesada !  " 

Around  the  bend,  like  a  screaming  projectile, 
lunged  another  pony,  neck  extended,  nostrils  blow- 
ing red,  and  the  ugly  policeman  Montara  standing 
a-tiptoe  in  the  stirrups.  Montara  was  like  some 
wild  Arab  in  a  mad  display  of  horsemanship.  He 
swayed  back  and  forth;  he  waved  the  carbine  in 
one  long  apelike  hand.  Carried  away  by  the  lust 
of  the  chase,  he  shouted  repeatedly  from  his  blood- 
darkened  countenance: 

"Alto  a  la  Guardia  Civil !  Alto,  alto !  Alto  a  la 
Guardia  Civil !  " 

Ponies  and  riders  plunged  behind  a  huge  brown 
boulder  down  the  road  and  out  of  sight.  Quesada 
snapped  up.  Active  as  an  ape,  he  slung  the  canvas 
packs  over  his  shoulders  and  leaped  down  the 
brushy  side  of  the  gorge.  What  time  the  stony 
defile  echoed  and  reechoed  with  the  distance-dim- 
ming clangor  of  pounding  hoofs  and  turbulent 
shouts,  he  sped,  on  his  long  mountaineer's  legs,  up 


216  THE  WOLF-CUB 

the  convolutions  of  the  goat  path  to  the  empested 
barrio. 

The  crang  of  a  carbine  suddenly  spearing  aloft 
from  down  the  gorge  caused  him  to  halt  on  the 
great  rock  at  the  brink  of  the  village.  He  looked 
back.  He  smiled  somberly. 

"That  will  be  my  poor  horse,"  he  remarked.  "He 
has  halted  for  the  Guardia  Civil !  " 


CHAPTER  XXV 

To  Jacinto  Quesada,  returned  after  an  absence  of 
over  a  week,  the  village  of  Minas  de  la  Sierra  wore 
an  inexplicably  strange  appearance.  Gone  utterly 
— mud  and  thatch  and  wooden  shutters — were  the 
chozas  in  which  the  widowed  mother  of  the  moun- 
tain boy,  Gabriel,  had  lain  sick  and  the  white-haired 
Villarobledo  had  died.  Where  the  huts  had  stood 
were  now  only  empty  spans. 

Before  the  other  huts  had  been  built  a  covered 
wooden  flume,  as  for  the  carrying  off  of  sewage. 
Down  the  old  Moorish  gutter  in  the  center  of  the 
uneven  street  coursed  a  clear  quick  stream  with  cold 
reflections  and  tiny  gurgling  noises  that  seemed  to 
tempt  one  to  drink. 

Otherwise,  nothing  stirred  in  the  chill  morning 
sunlight.  No  serranos  stood  in  the  low  doorways 
of  the  cabanas  or  hovered  about  the  cork-oak  tree 
in  the  center  of  the  barrio.  The  village  seemed  a 
village  of  the  dead. 

Quesada  hastened  across  the  street,  muddy  and 
slippery  from  the  heavy  fog  of  the  night  prior.  As 
he  did,  of  a  sudden  from  the  direction  of  the  little 
whitewashed  chapel,  there  drifted  down  to  his  ears 
a  continuous  moaning  and  groaning.  It  sounded 
bodiless  and  unearthly  in  the  thin  air  of  that  high 
altitude. 

He  knew  thereat.     Carson,  the  American,   fol- 


1 18  THE  WOLF-CUB 

lowing  out  his  scheme  of  sanitation,  had  segregated 
the  sick.  The  tiny  village  chapel  had  been  con- 
verted into  a  hospital.  Within  in  the  painful  ob- 
scurity, behind  those  apertures  that  were  now 
screened  against  flies  with  flimsy  calico,  men  were 
moving  back  and  forth  on  solemn  and  fearful  tasks. 

Quesada  made  his  way  into  the  cabana  where  he 
had  left  Felicidad.  Inside,  in  the  gloom,  he  found 
John  Fremont  Carson  visiting  the  girl  in  the  course 
of  his  rounds. 

Propped  by  a  pillow,  the  golden-haired  girl  was 
sitting  up  in  the  bed.  Her  cheeks  were  still  white 
as  ivory;  but  there  was  a  brave  new  light  in  her 
blue  eyes.  She  was  convalescing.  Carson  was 
holding  for  her,  with  kind  concern,  a  bowl  of  veg- 
etable soup,  thin  and  easily  digestible. 

Looking  over  the  American's  shoulder,  she  was 
the  first  to  discover  the  bandolero.  Writh  glad  and 
genuine  effusiveness,  in  a  voice  that  yet  showed 
husky  traces  of  the  vox  cholerica,  she  cried: 

"My  soul !     It  is  Jacintito  come  back  to  us !  " 

The  American  got  quickly  afoot  and  shook  hands 
warmly. 

"Have  you  brought  the  stuff?  "  he  greeted  solici- 
tously. 

"Seguramente,  si !  "  smiled  Quesada.  "And  we 
may  thank  the  bueno  Dios  that  the  senor  doctor, 
from  long  tending  to  cholera  cases,  had  every  little 
thing  we  needed !  " 

He  unslung,  with  the  words,  the  swollen  canvas 
bags  from  his  shoulders  and  placed  them  upon  the 
leaf-stuffed  couch  to  one  side. 

With  care  and  deep  concern,  Carson  fingered  and 


THE  WOLF-CUB  219 

opened  the  many  boxes,  bottles,  and  preparations. 
It  was  as  if  each  were  some  priceless  jewel.  He 
made  odd  little  sounds  in  his  throat,  expressive  of 
discovery  and  relief  and  infinite  joy. 

"Here  are  the  pages,  Senor  Carson,  which  will 
tell  you  all  about  the  cholera.  The  book  was  too 
heavy  for  me  to  carry ;  I  had  so  many  other  things ; 
and  therefore  I  tore  these  pages  out  bodily." 

The  American  nodded  and  shoved  the  torn  pages 
into  a  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"And  my  father  ?  "  exclaimed  Felicidad.  Perhaps 
to  her,  as  had  happened  to  Quesada  himself,  there 
was  something  poignantly  reminiscent  in  this  talk 
of  tearing  pages  from  one  of  the  rare  old  books  of 
the  hidalgo  doctor. 

"He  is  still  away,"  answered  Quesada  vaguely. 

The  American  looked  up  sharply  from  uncorking 
one  of  the  cobwebbed  bottles  of  wine. 

"You  left  word?" 

Quesada  nodded  constrainedly,  as  if  against  his 
will.  He  could  not  say  Don  Jaime  must  soon  fol- 
low him  up  the  mountains.  He  could  not  look 
at  the  girl.  He  feared  overwhelmingly  for  Felici- 
dad, once  her  father  should  arrive.  He  was  afraid 
lest  his  Moorish  eyes  might  betray  him. 

Carson  mixed  a  narcotic  of  the  wine  and  a  pinch 
of  opium,  and  proffered  it  to  the  girl. 

"It  will  relieve  internal  distress,"  he  explained, 
"and  induce  strength-building  sleep." 

They  came  out  into  the  open — the  bandolero  and 
the  American. 

"How  many  dead?  "  queried  the  former. 

"Only  three.     Villarobledo,  of  course;  a  seven- 


220  THE  WOLF-CUB 

month-old  baby;  and  the  widowed  mother  of  the 
lad,  Gabriel.  She  died  two  nights  ago." 

"Not  so  bad,"  commented  Quesada  hopefully. 

"No;  but  we  got  fully  twenty  sick,  all  stages.  I 
must  get  these  drugs  up  to  them.  They're  suffer- 
ing pitifully.  On  the  way  I  can  show  you  a  bit 
of  what  we  have  done,  and  tell  you  the  rest." 

He  indicated  the  open  stone  bed  of  the  old  Moor- 
ish flume,  as  they  followed  it  up  the  uneven  street. 

"Notice  how  clear  the  water  is?  That  comes 
from  our  filtration  system.  Up  above,  at  the  top 
of  the  village,  we  deepened  the  channel  in  one  spot. 
We  put  a  layer  of  large  stones  on  the  bottom  of  the 
pit,  above  that  a  stratum  of  pebbles,  and  on  top  of 
all,  a  coating  of  fine  sand.  The  water,  seeping 
through  those  straining  layers,  is  purged  of  all  for- 
eign substances,  thoroughly  purified." 

The  bandolero  nodded  his  comprehension.  They 
made  on. 

"Morales  and  his  men  have  proved  as  good  as 
their  word.  With  their  hands,  they  cleaned  the 
scum  from  every  inch  of  that  stone  flume.  Manuel 
himself  is  simply  fine,  a  prince!  "  Carson  added  with 
that  touch  of  familiarity  which  denotes  the  warm- 
est appreciation. 

"Then  we  made  two  cut-offs  from  the  flume," 
he  continued.  "One  supplies  that  box-channel  near 
the  houses  to  expedite  the  carry ing-off  of  sewage. 
The  other  is  in  the  nature  of  a  flood-gate  leading 
into  a  hole,  deep  as  your  neck."  He  smiled  faintly. 
"Many's  the  time  I've  made  a  sluice  of  this  order, 
when  I  was  mining  for  gold  out  in  California,  but 
never  before  for  this  particular  purpose." 


THE  WOLF-CUB 

"And  what  purpose  is  that?  " 

"Well,  when  somebody  goes  cold  and  collapsed 
from  the  cholera,  we  lift  the  floodgate  and  let  the 
water  flow  into  the  hole.  Meanwhile,  we  heat  a 
bunch  of  stones  in  the  coals  of  a  fire.  We  throw 
the  stones  into  the  water  and  then,  when  the  bath  is 
at  the  proper  temperature,  we  lower  the  patient 
gently  into  it.  Hot  baths  usually  give  relief.  In 
the  case  of  Gabriel's  mother,  they  helped  to  prolong 
her  life.  After  the  bath,  we  massage  the  limbs 
thoroughly  to  circulate  the  blood  and  take  out  the 
kinks  of  the  cramps." 

"You  have  been  working  most  arduously,  Senor 
Carson,"  said  Quesada. 

He  was  looking  keenly  at  the  American.  Traces 
of  fearful  toil  and  many  sleepless  nights  showed  in 
Carson's  face.  His  once  square  countenance  was 
thinned  into  bony  angles ;  there  were  heavy  pouches 
under  the  eyes;  and  the  eyes  themselves  were  no 
longer  merry,  but  severely,  crisply  blue. 

With  uneasy  characteristic  modesty,  the  Ameri- 
can fidgeted  at  the  canvas  packs  in  his  hands. 

"Oh,  yes ;  a  trifle,"  he  admitted  reluctantly. 
"We've  all  been  pretty  busy.  We  had  to  shovel 
two  infected  cabanas  over  the  cliff.  The  stream 
through  the  gorge  carried  the  debris  away.  We've 
burned  every  rag  and  soiled  bit  of  clothes  and  bed- 
ding in  the  pueblo.  I  tell  you,  I  was  mighty  glad 
to  help  out  in  that  task !  " 

He  took  the  canvas  packs  in  one  hand  and  felt  in 
his  pocket,  with  the  other,  for  the  torn  pages 
Quesada  had  given  him.  He  ran  his  eyes  quickly 
over  the  printed  words.  Presently  he  looked  up. 


222  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Quesada  had  not  spoken  in  that  spell  of  time.  He 
noted  now  a  little  frowning  knuckle  on  the  young 
bandolero's  forehead. 

"You  are  worrying,  Jacinto !  "  he  said,  sharp  as 
an  accusation. 

Quesada  was  startled. 

"Dios  hombre !  "  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  but  the 
truth." 

"But  why?  The  plague?  Felicidad  or  her 
father?" 

Quesada  shook  his  head  morosely. 

"It  is  none  of  these  things,  God  forgive  me,  Don 
Juan.  It  is  that  I  am  worrying  selfishly  about 
Jacinto  Quesada  alone.  When  you  mentioned  the 
stream  through  the  gorge  carrying  away  the  debris 
of  the  two  infected  cabanas,  it  set  my  mind  back. 
I  thought  of  the  two  policemen  down  in  that  gorge. 
Don  Juan,  they  are  waiting  for  me !  " 

"It  is  not  that  Jacinto  Quesada  is  afraid,  surely!  " 

"Carajo,  no!  I  fear  these  Guardias  Civiles  no 
more  than  I  fear  the  plague,  and  you  know,  senor, 
I  do  not  fear  the  plague.  The  Wolf  of  the  Sierras 
has  become  too  long  used  to  death  to  be  afraid  to 
die.  But,  Don  Juan,  I  fear  what  these  men  say. 
They  would  kill  me  for  crimes  I  have  never  done. 
It  is  not  just,  my  friend,  to  be  hounded  for  acts  you 
never  perpetrated.  They  would  kill  me  for  the 
crimes  of  some  other  man,  a  sneaking  masquerader, 
a  loathsome,  brutal,  sacrilegious  creature!  Mother 
of  God,  I  worry  because  I  do  not  understand !  " 

"Worry  is  poison,"  said  the  American  dogmat- 
ically. "Every  moment  you  worry  is  as  if  you 
poured  a  glass  of  poison  into  your  system.  Jacinto, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  223 

do  you  want  to  make  yourself  liable  to  the 
scourge  ?  " 

It  was  a  grim  warning.  Quesada  shook  his  head 
vehemently.  He  could  not  answer.  A  scream  as 
of  intolerable  agony  precluded,  for  the  moment, 
further  speech.  They  were  nearing  the  dingy, 
whitewashed,  thatch-and-mud  chapel  of  the  village. 
On  the  heels  of  the  awful  scream,  saddening  their 
ears  continuously,  now  breathed  a  dull  low  monotone 
of  pain. 

They  entered  the  sick  bay.  On  either  side,  down 
the  whole  length  of  the  chapel  from  doorway  to 
wooden  white-painted  altar,  was  a  raised  platform 
of  pine  slabs  with  a  slight  pitch  toward  the  central 
passageway  between.  Swathed  in  blankets  side  by 
side  on  the  platforms,  doubling  up  with  cramps  in 
arms  and  legs  and  abdomen,  groaning  in  acute  an- 
guish, or  lying  fearfully  still  in  stages  of  collapse, 
were  fully  a  score  of  sick  and  dying — men,  young 
and  old;  girls  in  their  teens  and  mothers  of  fam- 
ilies ;  and  one  little  tad  of  a  boy.  He  was  the 
lad,  Gabriel,  who  had  announced  the  plague  when 
first  the  party  of  cabalgadores  had  gained  the  vil- 
lage. 

Quesada  discovered  a  difficulty  in  breathing;  he 
felt  his  head  reel.  The  air  was  close  and  offensive 
with  sweaty  bilious  odors  and  the  sharp  pungent 
smell  of  turpentine.  He  noted  two  candles  burning 
wanly  upon  the  dingy  altar. 

Carson  had  left  him  to  go  from  sufferer  to  dying 
with  the  balm  of  his  new-found  drugs.  When 
Morales  came  forward  to  greet  him,  the  bandolero 
remarked : 


THE  WOLF-CUB 

"Those  candles  there,  friend  Manuel !  They  add 
to  the  stifling  closeness  of  the  place." 

"They  are  a  symbol  of  our  religion." 

"I  know;  but  there  is  no  real  need  of  them  here. 
They  waste  the  precious  air." 

Morales  smiled  slowly. 

"You  and  I  would  not  need  the  reminder  of  the 
orthodox  wax  candles,  Jacinto;  but  these  serranos 
lack  spunk.  They  believe  they  are  doomed  to  die, 
and  die  just  to  prove  it.  The  burning  candles  typify 
the  living  presence  of  the  Lord.  Their  yellow 
flames  hearten  some  to  fight  to  live ;  others  suffer  and 
die  more  patiently  in  their  wan  presence — " 

A  hoarse  exclamation  upon  the  part  of  Quesada 
interrupted  the  matador.  Quesada  had  noted, 
among  the  blanketed  patients,  one  of  Morales'  own 
cuadrilla,  the  banderillero,  Alfonso  Robledo. 
Shocked  and  violently  agitated,  Quesada  gripped  the 
matador's  arm. 

"But  this  man!  How  comes  he  sick?  He  is  a 
bullfighter,  a  banderillo,  a  strong  man,  muscled  like 
a  leopard,  stout  of  heart!  " 

Said  Morales  grimly,  "The  pestilence  respects 
neither  strength  nor  weakness,  race,  profession,  nor 
creed." 

One  of  the  cuadrilla  attending  the  sick,  the  picador 
called  Coruncho  Lopez,  paused  in  his  labors  to  re- 
mark: 

"Robledo  is  ill  through  contagion.  Two  nights 
ago,  the  mother  of  the  boy  Gabriel  died.  Alfonso 
and  I  carried  the  body  down  through  the  village  to 
the  lip  of  the  gorge.  Her  clothes  were  infected." 

"Oh,  mia  mamacita!"  wailed  the  lad,  Gabriel, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  225 

from  his  corner  of  the  sick  bay.  "Now  I  am  all 
alone  in  the  world  and  sick  to  die !  " 

The  bandolero  turned  to  him. 

"Hush,  nino !  "  he  said  tenderly.  "You  have  still 
Jacinto  Quesada  to  look  after  you ! " 

The  boy  quieted.  Gratefully  he  looked  up  at  the 
salteador  with  black  eyes  that  smoldered  in  deep- 
sunken  pits.  When  Carson,  in  the  course  of  his 
rounds,  offered  him  a  preparation  of  cornstarch  and 
milk  to  alleviate  the  pangs  of  his  stomach,  he  swal- 
lowed it  readily. 

"It  is  not  safe  to  use  opium  in  any  form  in  the 
cases  of  children,"  explained  the  American  to  Que- 
sada. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  behind  them.  Coruncho 
Lopez,  the  picador,  who  had  been  nursing  the  sick, 
was  taken  with  an  unexpected  and  brutal  seizure. 
He  held  his  stomach  and  doubled  up.  In  intense 
agony,  he  moaned,  "Water,  water !  " 

Carson  hurried  out  to  draw  fresh  water.  In  the 
short  wait  the  disease  made  astonishing  progress  on 
the  man.  His  muscled  frame  jackknifed  with  acute 
cramps.  By  the  time  Carson  returned  with  the 
water,  his  face  had  darkened  to  a  purple  hue,  and 
the  skin  wrinkled  up  as  if  it  would  crack. 

They  sat  him  upon  the  edge  of  one  of  the  plat- 
forms, but  he  fell  back.  His  body  was  all  at  once 
cold.  He  was  in  the  asphyxial  stage,  all  animation 
suspended,  no  beat  of  pulse,  apparently  dead. 

Carson  held  an  open  bottle  of  ammonia  beneath 
his  nose.  It  had  no  effect ;  the  man  was  not  breath- 
ing. He  forced  brandy  down  his  throat,  but  the 
picador  lay  still  and  chilly  cold.  He  was  dead. 


226  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Thus,  swift  and  silent  as  the  pounce  of  a  condor, 
strikes  the  terrible  cholera ! 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  the  man 
was  dead.  Only  an  ace  of  time  before,  he  had 
moved  about,  so  valiant  to  aid,  so  tender  to  nurse. 
Death  had  come  too  cruelly  abrupt.  It  was  appal- 
ling. 

Carson  looked  about  in  the  sudden  and  apprehen- 
sive silence.  He  did  not  note  the  tall  athletic  form 
of  the  Frenchman  darkening  on  the  moment  the 
doorway.  His  blue  eyes  were  blunted,  somber  with 
gloom ;  his  rugged  face  was  very  gray. 

"That  proves  it,"  Carson  said.  "This  man  got 
the  plague  from  carrying  out  the  contagious  body  of 
that  boy's  mother.  There'll  be  no  more  carrying  of 
dead  bodies  down  the  cliffside  to  cast  into  the 
stream.  It  isn't  right  to  us  to  have  to  bear  the  in- 
fected dead  so  far;  it  isn't  right  to  the  serranos  in 
the  hills  below  that  their  stream  should  float  dis- 
eased bodies  and  make  them  liable  to  the  epidemic. 
With  this  death,  we'll  change  our  methods.  We'll 
cremate  the  bodies,  immediately  below  here,  on  the 
great  rock  of  the  village !  " 

Mutterings  of  dissent,  abhorrence,  and  strong 
condemnation  went  up  from  the  men  of  the  cuadrilla 
who  were  assisting  in  the  hospital.  Even  some  of 
the  convalescing  and  slightly  sick  rose  up  in  their 
blankets  to  express  disapproval  and  fearful  appre- 
hension. Their  religious  scruples  were  shocked, 
outraged.  Cremation  was  to  them  contrary  to  the 
practices  of  their  religion. 

They  did  not  know  that  the  tenets  of  their  religion 
— like  the  tenets  of  any  professedly  divine  religion, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  227 

or  the  statutes  of  any  confessedly  human  law — were 
capable  of  drastic  and  remarkable  innovations  under 
the  stress  of  necessity.  They  believed  that  their 
system  of  sacred  services  was  without  elasticity, 
firm  and  inexorable. 

They  were  only  ignorant.  Never  had  most  of 
them  heard  of  pronunciamientos,  papal  bulls,  nuncio 
rescripta  which,  when  it  was  not  only  fit,  but 
expedient  and  profitable  so  to  do,  had  changed, 
remolded,  or  altogether  cast  out  certain  rites  and 
dogmas.  They  were  not  so  much  devotedly  pious. 
They  were  hidebound,  superstitiously  fearful. 

Jacques  Ferou,  halted  in  the  doorway,  observed 
all  with  his  slate-colored,  calculating  eyes.  Slowly 
he  smiled  his  superior  and  peculiar  smile;  then 
turned  away  and  made  for  the  cabanas  which  still 
sheltered  well  men.  An  insidious  drama  was  afoot. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

CARSON  paid  no  heed  to  the  mutterings  all  about 
him.  Alone  and  unassisted,  he  swathed  the  body  in 
a  new  clean  blanket. 

"That  will  stop  communication  of  the  disease 
from  the  body  to  the  bearers,"  he  said.  He  sur- 
veyed the  group  about  him.  "Now,  who  will  carry 
out  the  dead  ?  " 

The  men  looked  at  one  another.  No  one  stepped 
forward  to  volunteer. 

Jacinto  Quesada,  standing  in  the  background, 
sensed  immediately,  then,  to  what  a  stage  things  had 
come.  He  elbowed  through  the  throng.  Quietly 
he  picked  up  the  blanket-swathed  figure. 

"Senor  Carson,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  around, 
the  form  of  the  picador  held  before  him  in  his  arms ; 
"you  are  doing  the  correct  thing.  Cremation  is  the 
sanitary  expedient." 

The  American  thanked  him  with  his  eyes.  He 
followed  Quesada  out  the  doorway.  They  went 
down  the  uneven  village  street.  The  men  of  the 
cuadrilla  trooped  after.  From  the  cabanas  on  either 
hand  serranos,  stirred  up  by  the  insidious  Ferou, 
crept  out  like  wolves  stretching  forth  from  their 
dens. 

Carson  never  looked  back.  He  could  hear  the 
men  muttering  behind  him ;  he  realized  some  dark 
scheme  was  pulsing  in  their  brains;  yet  he  never 
looked  back.  He  strode,  at  the  head  of  all  that  mut- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  229 

taring  milling  throng,  down  the  street  toward  the 
rock. 

As  they  neared  the  rock,  suddenly  he  swung 
about.  The  men  stopped,  huddled  back  from  him. 

"Get  wood ! "  he  shouted.  "Anything  inflam- 
mable!" 

The  men  shoved  forward,  crowded  together,  and 
eyed  him  with  furtive,  wily  eyes.  No  one  moved 
to  obey. 

"Go  ahead,  Don  Juan !  "  shouted  a  voice  from  be- 
hind. "I'll  collect  the  wood !  " 

It  was  Manuel  Morales,  proving  bigger  in  the 
emergency  than  any  superstitious  dread.  A  deep- 
throated  muttering  went  up  from  the  men.  But  his 
quick  courageous  action  had  robbed  them,  for  the 
moment,  of  that  focus  of  interest,  anger,  and  in- 
subordination which  leads  to  mob  violence. 

Carson  swung  round  to  start  on  again.  As  he 
did,  he  saw  that  Quesada,  behind  his  back,  had  de- 
posited the  dead  burden  upon  the  muddy  ground  and 
was  stooping  and  cupping  up  water  from  the  old 
Moorish  flume  to  quench  his  hot  thirst. 

"Stop !  "  he  cried,  his  voice  chill  with  warning  and 
terrible  dread.  "Jacinto,  you  are  in  a  sweat! 
Don't  you  know  that  copious  drinking  of  cold  water 
while  in  this  condition  is  one  of  the  direct  causes  of 
cholera ! " 

Quesada  stepped  back,  momentarily  aghast.  The 
sweat  quickened  and  poured  from  his  brown  youth- 
ful face.  Suddenly  he  laughed. 

"It  is  no  importa,"  he  said,  with  returned  calm- 
ness. He  strode  on  under  the  weight  of  his  grue- 
some burden. 


230  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Carson  followed  at  his  heels  and,  at  the  heels  of 
the  American,  straggled  like  so  many  famished 
wolves,  the  men  of  the  cuadrilla  and  the  serranos  of 
the  pueblo. 

Quesada  was  in  haste  to  deposit  the  body  upon  the 
rock.  He  felt  a  strange  dizziness  in  his  head.  He 
did  not  want  to  admit  it,  yet  he  feared  it  foretokened 
an  attack  of  the  pestilence.  At  this  crucial  time,  he 
did  not  want  the  dizziness  to  show  in  his  actions. 
That  would  evidence  the  plague.  And  were  the 
men  to  note  it,  they  would  think  it  the  hand  of  God 
striking  him  down  for  aiding  in  the  cremation.  It 
would  precipitate  them  into  some  insensate  and 
ferocious  act. 

He  held  himself  severely  erect.  There  were  spots 
dancing  before  his  eyes,  yet  he  made  out  that  one  of 
the  cuadrilla,  a  short  thick-set  banderillero  named 
Baptista  Monterey,  had  stepped  forward  from  the 
mob.  The  banderillero,  his  ordinary  black  street 
clothes  rendering  him  inconspicuous  in  the  mob,  had 
been  standing  quietly  alongside  the  tall  blond 
Frenchman.  It  was  Ferou  himself  who  had  shoved 
him  forward.  The  man  spoke. 

"You  cannot  burn  the  body,  senor  caballero  of  my 
heart!  Cremation  is  a  desecration  of  the  earthly 
vessel  of  the  soul.  It  is  against  our  religion !  " 

"Jacinto  Quesada  himself  has  given  you  the 
reason  for  the  need  of  it,"  returned  Carson  coldly. 
"Cremation  is  the  sanitary  expedient." 

"But  the  body  belongs  to  the  Espiritu  Santo! 
You  cannot — " 

"What  is  this,  Baptista  Monterey ! "  came  a  new 
voice,  an  astonished  and  wrathful  voice. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  231 

Quesada  found  himself  unable  to  see  its  owner. 
An  opaque  blackness  was  fogging  his  eyes.  But  he 
knew  that  the  voice  belonged  to  Manuel  Morales. 

"Put  down  the  wood,  Manuel !  "  he  heard  Carson 
say.  There  was  a  strange  note  in  the  American's 
voice,  a  grim  metallic  note.  "Go  away.  Get  more 
wood,  Manuel.  Leave  me  alone.  They  tell  me  I 
cannot  burn  the  dead.  They  are  rebellious.  I'll 
show  them !  " 

Quesada  gripped  himself  that  he  might  hear  on. 
There  was  a  rushing  and  pounding  of  blood  in  his 
ears.  The  voices  seemed  fainting  low  and  dim  with 
distance,  as  if  the  speakers  were  drifting  away  from 
him. 

"Senor  Carson,"  feebly  he  heard  Morales  say, 
"this  is  your  affair,  but  I  am  stanchly  behind  you. 
When  you  took  up  this  task  of  cleansing  the  scourge 
from  the  barrio,  I  said  that  Manuel  Morales  and  all 
his  cuadrilla  would  be  yours  to  command.  It  is  so ; 
they  are  yours ;  they  must  obey  you !  I  go  away ;  I 
leave  them  to  you.  Do  with  them  what  you  will. 
Teach  them !  " 

Like  the  noise  of  a  remote  waterfall  came  to 
Quesada's  ears  a  muffled  crash.  It  might  have  been 
the  sudden  casting  upon  the  rock  of  a  bundle  of  fag- 
gots. He  only  knew,  of  a  sudden  and  all  at  once, 
that  he  was  reeling.  The  water  he  had  drunk 
seemed  turned  to  liquid  fire ;  his  stomach  was  burn- 
ing up,  his  whole  tottering  frame  was  burning  up! 

As  from  far  away,  he  heard  a  shout.  He  could 
not  see. 

"Heart  of  God — look !  Jacinto  Quesada !  He  is 
falling!  He  has  got  it,  he  has  got  it!  " 


232  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Quesada  felt  himself  pitching  forward  and  fall- 
ing, falling,  falling  as  if  from  one  of  the  cinder- 
gray  precipices  of  the  sierras.  A  rush  of  sound 
boomed  in  his  ears : 

"It  is  the  hand  of  God!  Aupa,  aupa!  It  is  a 
divine  sign  that  we  are  right!  Porvida,  men! 
Down  the  sacrilegious  Americano!  Sweep  him 
from  the  rock!  Kill  him,  kill  him!  He  must  not 
burn  our  dead !  " 

A  tremendous  sound  seemed  to  burst  the  mem- 
branes of  the  bandolero's  ears.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
report  of  an  automatic.  At  any  rate,  as  if  a  bullet 
had  thudded  on  his  own  frontal  bone,  he  felt  a  sud- 
den dazzling  crash  against  his  forehead.  He  had 
banged  down  upon,  the  rock ! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

JOHN  FREMONT  CARSON  stood  upon  the  great 
rock  at  the  brink  of  the  village  and  surveyed,  above 
the  ugly  snub  nose  of  his  automatic,  the  surge  of 
men  before  him.  One  shot  from  that  automatic  had 
garroted  the  rebellion.  At  his  feet  sprawled  the 
short  thick-set  form  of  Baptista  Monterey,  a  tiny 
flaming  crater  in  his  right  temple  where  a  steel- 
jacketed  bullet  had  found  his  life. 

Behind  Carson  lay  Jacinto  Quesada,  stricken  and 
spread-eagled  from  the  plague.  The  men  stood 
staggered  and  cowed  before  him,  fascinated  with 
fear  and  deep  awe. 

"Quick,  one  of  you !  "  exploded  the  American. 
"Carry  Quesada  to  the  sick  bay!  " 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  among  the  apprehensively 
huddled  men.  The  tall  gray-suited  Frenchman 
stepped  forward 

"Allow  me,  monsenor." 

With  a  gentle  concern,  astonishing  from  him,  he 
rolled  the  long-legged  form  of  the  bandolero  snugly 
in  his  scrape  and  then,  staggering  under  the  weight, 
leaden  with  unconsciousness,  started  off  up  the  un- 
even street  toward  the  chapel. 

Carson  flourished  his  automatic. 

"Pronto !  "  he  yelled.  "Into  your  huts,  you  ser- 
ranos !  You  of  the  cuadrilla,  back  to  your  work  in 
the  hospital !  " 


234  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  men  dispersed  like  a  foggy  neblina  under  the 
rays  of  the  sun. 

Ferou  was  some  distance  ahead  of  the  cuadrilla  as 
it  tramped,  bowed  of  head,  back  up  the  street.  Car- 
son and  Morales  remained  on  the  rock,  busying  with 
the  fire  which  would  cremate  the  remains.  There 
was  no  one  to  see. 

The  Frenchman  seized  the  opportunity.  With 
one  hand,  he  reached  under  the  long  mountaineer's 
shawl  that  swathed  Quesada's  body ;  he  reached  into 
the  inside  pocket  of  the  sheepskin  zamarra.  He 
drew  forth  a  small  mahogany-colored  leather  purse. 
That  purse  had  once  been  his  own. 

Without  bothering  to  open  it,  he  thrust  it  into  a 
pocket  of  his  gray  tweed  suit.  He  knew.  Within, 
in  that  small  mahogany-colored  leather  purse,  was 
the  tightly  wound  roll  of  five-thousand  peseta  bills 
he  had  stolen  from  Don  Jaime  de  Torreblanca  y 
Moncada ! 

When  Carson  hurried  up,  a  short  spell  later,  to 
tend  to  Quesada,  Ferou  was  awaiting  him  in  the 
hospital,  apparent  anxiety  upon  his  ashy-hued  face. 

"Monsenor  Carson,"  he  said  deferentially,  "to- 
day must  have  taught  you  a  lesson.  It  is  not  wise 
that  these  bullfighters  and  serranos  should  be  armed. 
They  might  rise  again.  I  would  some  advice  give 
you.  Collect  all  the  arms  in  the  barrio  and  keep 
them  under  your  own  hand." 

The  suggestion  met  with  accord  from  the  Amer- 
ican. Readily  he  could  see  its  precautionary  value 
against  future  rebellion. 

"Just  a  little,  and  I'll  be  finished  doing  all  I  can 
for  Jacinto ;  then  I'll  be  with  you." 


THE  WOLF-CUB  235 

Together  they  made  a  round  of  the  cabanas. 
They  requisitioned  ancient  muzzle-loading  smooth- 
bores, Mannlichers,  Mauser  carbines,  revolvers,  old- 
fashioned  pistols,  and  guns  with  muzzles  wide  as  the 
mouth  of  a  French  horn.  In  Quesada's  choza, 
where  Felicidad  slept  and  hourly  gained  strength, 
they  found  a  modern  smokeless  breech-loading 
hunting  gun,  a  cordite  repeater. 

They  were  tireless  and  microscopically  thorough 
in  the  search.  Despite  the  mutterings  and  scowls 
of  the  serranos,  they  seized  every  instrument  which 
might  be  used  as  a  weapon  of  offense.  They  col- 
lected Manchegan  knives,  navajas,  razors,  and  even 
alpenstocks  and  shovels.  Against  the  cork-oak  tree 
in  the  center  of  the  pueblo  street,  they  made  a  heap 
of  the  conglomeration. 

They  had  circled  back  to  the  hospital,  and  Ferou 
had  entered  to  disarm  the  members  of  the  cuadrilla 
therein,  when  Carson,  following  at  his  heels,  made  a 
sudden  clutch  at  the  jamb  of  the  door. 

"Hola !  "  exclaimed  Morales,  just  then  coming  up 
behind  from  the  cremation  rock  at  the  brink  of  the 
pueblo.  "Sacred  blood,  what's  the  matter,  Don 
Juan!" 

Ferou  slewed  swiftly  round.  Both  men,  the  one 
within,  the  other  without  the  chapel,  eyed  the  Amer- 
ican in  the  doorway.  There  was  a  strange,  almost 
hopeful  expectancy  in  the  slate-colored  eyes  of  the 
Frenchman ;  in  the  dark  thick-lashed  eyes  of  the 
matador  a  terrible  voiceless  dread. 

Carson  drew  himself  up.  It  was  a  visible  effort. 
His  angular  face  looked  grayly  haggard;  his  lips 
were  drawn  tight  over  his  teeth. 


236  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  feel  a  little 
faint,  that's  all.  I  guess  the  excitement  of  this 
morning  has  upset  me.  It  will  soon  pass  off." 

"You  must  lie  down,  mi  camarada,"  said  Morales 
gently  but  firmly.  "You  have  not  slept  in  two  nights 
— since  the  night  when  that  boy's  mother  died,  and 
last  night  when  Robledo  of  my  cuadrilla  slapped 
under.  You  need  rest.  You  have  been  doing  the 
work  of  three  men,  of  thirty  men,  tending  Felicidad, 
doctoring  in  here,  directing  and  administering  to  all. 
You  must  lie  down." 

The  American  made  to  stagger  through  into  the 
sick  bay;  but  Morales  stopped  him  with  a  steadying 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Not  here,"  he  advised  softly.  "We  are  over- 
crowded already.  Besides,  for  you  to  lie  in  this 
atmosphere,  would  make  you  more  liable  to  the 
plague.  Come  to  Quesada's  cabana.  Felicidad  is 
feeling  quite  strong  to-day.  There  is  an  unused 
couch  there.  Felicidad  will  see  that  you  want  for 
nothing." 

"But  Quesada— " 

"I  will  take  care  of  him.  Jacinto  is  a  brave  man  ; 
he  has  the  will  to  live.  Everything  in  my  power  I 
shall  do,  Don  Juan,  to  see  that  he  does  live." 

With  one  shaking  hand,  Carson  fumbled  in  his 
pocket.  He  finally  drew  out  a  number  of  yellow 
printed  leaves  that  had  been  torn  from  a  book. 

"Here  are  the  instructions  of  what  to  do,"  he 
said  wearily. 

Morales  took  the  yellow  illumined  pages.  His 
honest  Andalusian  face  was  grave  with  an  intense- 
ness  of  sincerity. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  237 

"Senor  Carson,"  he  said  almost  formally,  "every- 
thing you  have  done,  I  will  attempt  to  do.  You  may 
rest  easily  in  the  knowledge  and  conviction  that 
I  am  carrying  forward  all  that  you  planned. 
Your  methods  have  proved  good  methods.  There 
have  been  deaths,  true;  but  never,  in  an  epi- 
demic of  cholera,  have  I  known  so  few  deceases, 
so  many  recoveries.  Steadfastly,  with  fortitude 
and  without  deviation,  with  a  stout  heart  and  an 
iron  hand,  I  shall  put  through  your  modern 
sanitary  methods.  Senor,  I  will  even  cremate  the 
dead!" 

It  was  enough.  Guided  and  aided  by  the  mata- 
dor, Carson  stumbled  down  the  uneven  street  toward 
Quesada's  cabana.  The  Frenchman  looked  after 
the  two,  through  the  chapel  doorway,  and  smiled  his 
calculating  and  very  superior  smile. 

When  Morales  returned,  Ferou  pointed  out  the 
heaped-up  scramble  of  weapons  under  the  cork-oak 
tree  and  explained  what  he  and  Carson  had  been 
about. 

"If  the  Senor  Americano  thought  it  a  good  plan," 
said  Morales  with  promptitude  and  decision,  "I  will 
go  through  with  it.  My  word  has  been  given  in 
promise.  Whatever  Don  Juan  started,  that  shall  I 
attempt  to  finish." 

He  entered  the  hospital.  Within,  what  remained 
of  his  cuadrilla  were  watching  and  nursing  the  sick. 
They  were  now  only  three.  Of  the  others,  the 
banderillero,  Baptista  Monterey,  had  been  killed  in 
the  rebellion  on  the  rock;  Coruncho  Lopez,  the 
picador,  was  dead  from  the  plague;  and  another 
banderillero,  Alfonso  Robledo,  was  still  numbered 


THE  WOLF-CUB 

among   the   blanketed   patients   on   the   platforms. 

"Here,  you  peones,"  said  Morales  to  the  three. 
"Take  off  your  guns  and  knives !  It  is  the  order  of 
the  Senor  Carson." 

The  bullfighters  darted  quick  glances  at  one  an- 
other. They  were  nervous  and  suspicious.  Why 
did  the  matador  want  them  to  disarm?  What  did 
he  purpose  doing,  once  he  had  them  unarmed — 
punish  them  for  their  participation  in  that  morn- 
ing's lebellion?  They  feared  to  disobey  the  mata- 
dor, yet  they  feared  more  the  intent  behind  the  com- 
mand. They  hesitated. 

"Shed  your  own  weapons,  Don  Manuel,"  sug- 
gested the  insidious  Ferou  in  a  whisper.  "Then  the 
men  will  understand  that  it  is  a  general  order  which 
applies  to  all,  without  favoritism." 

"Dios  hombre !  "  exclaimed  Morales,  growing  irri- 
tated. "Must  I  coax  my  peones  to  obey  the  com- 
mand of  their  own  matador?  " 

"It  is  not  that,  Don  Manuel.  These  men  are  only 
poor  silly  Spaniards  who  do  not  understand.  They 
are  afraid  of  your  reason  for  thus  asking  them  to 
disarm.  If  you  discard  your  weapons,  they  will 
realize  there  is  nothing  to  fear.  They  will  follow 
suit.  And  you  will  have  set  the  peones  the  example, 
like  a  true  matador !  " 

"Disparate ! "  ejaculated  Morales.  "What  non- 
sense ! "  But  just  the  same,  realizing  that  it  was 
the  simplest  way  to  attain  the  end  in  view,  he  re- 
moved from  about  his  waist  the  belt  on  which  were 
suspended  a  revolver  and  sheathed  knife. 

Readily  then  the  three  bullfighters  emulated  his 
example.  And  Jacques  Ferou  carried  all  the 


THE  WOLF-CUB  239 

weapons  to  the  pile  beneath  the  cork-oak  tree.  Out- 
side and  beyond  eyeshot,  he  saw  fit  to  indulge,  once 
more,  in  his  exasperating  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

CHILL  and  damp  took  turns  about  with  rock-glare 
and  sudden  heat  to  aid  and  abet  their  deadly  ally, 
the  cholera.  Thick  neblinas,  dank  mists,  and  wispy 
rains  cloaked  the  sierras,  night  and  morning;  the 
noonday  sun  broke  through  and  refracted  its  rays 
with  intense  heat  from  stony  gorge  and  crag;  east- 
erly gales  or  levantes  swept  down  from  the  pinnacles 
and  drove  all  away  with  dense  snowstorms,  abrupt 
and  blinding,  violent  and  icy;  and  all  the  while,  in- 
side the  four  mud  walls  of  cabana  and  chapel,  the 
barrio  continued  to  retch  and  writhe  in  the  grasp  of 
the  vomit. 

Felicidad  was  showing  signs  of  slow  but  evident 
improvement.  Within  the  hospital,  there  was  hope 
for  Quesada's  recovery,  but  imminent  danger  of  a 
relapse  and  speedy  death. 

The  bandolero  was  languishing  in  the  third  reac- 
tive stage  of  malignant  cholera.  There  had  come 
to  him  a  surcease  of  the  agonizing  symptoms.  No 
longer  was  there  any  want  of  pulse;  his  skin  had 
returned  to  its  almost  normal  hue ;  his  body  was  once 
more  warm.  It  was  too  warm.  He  was  burning 
up  with  a  kind  of  typhoid  fever  that  kept  him  on  his 
back  and  affected  his  brain. 

He  had  weird  dreams  and  horrible  vagaries.  Al- 
ways was  he  the  hounded  victim  of  a  terrible  mis- 
take. Pursued  relentlessly  by  two  beagles  of  the 
Guardia  Civil,  he  saw  himself,  in  one  fancy,  seek- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  241 

ing  sanctuary  in  a  monastery.  Under  the  irrevoca- 
ble seal  of  confession,  his  past  crimes  were  forgiven 
him.  He  went  from  monastery  to  seminary  where 
he  achieved  in  all  piety  the  sacrament  of  Holy 
Orders. 

Garbed  in  black  chasuble,  he  imagined  himself 
saying  Mass,  one  day,  when  a  tall,  lean-faced,  white- 
haired  sergeant  of  police  entered.  As  he  turned 
from  the  golden  pyx,  containing  the  Host,  and 
raised  his  arms  in  a  Dominus  Vobiscum,  straight 
through  the  lungs  the  policeman  shot  him.  Like 
Thomas  a  Becket  of  old,  he  pictured  himself  fall- 
ing wounded  to  death  upon  the  stainless  cloth  of  the 
altar ! 

Carson  was  suffering,  meanwhile,  all  the  agonies 
he  so  often  had  witnessed  and  so  intrepidly  had  tried 
to  assuage.  He  had  caught  the  cholera.  The  ex- 
citement of  that  crucial  time  upon  the  rock  had  over- 
stirred  and  heated  him,  and  made  of  his  body  a  hot 
forcing  place  for  the  virulent  micro-organisms  of 
the  plague. 

Ere  he  could  be  removed  from  Quesada's  cabana 
to  the  sick  bay,  he  was  enduring  all  the  intolerable 
tortures  of  purgatory.  With  that  firm  unshakable 
courage  of  the  great-souled  woman,  Felicidad  had 
offered,  then,  to  watch  over  him  and  to  nurse  him 
back  to  life. 

Alone  of  all  the  directing  geniuses,  only  Manuel 
Morales  and  Jacques  Ferou  were  left  upstanding 
upon  their  two  feet.  Even  the  three  bullfighters, 
who  had  been  so  helpful  to  aid,  were  stretched  out 
on  the  platforms  in  the  hospital,  sick  and  wretched 
and  wholly  impotent. 


242  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  work  had  settled  down  to  a  fearful  routine. 
More  than  once  Morales  fairly  cleared  the  hospital 
of  healed  and  dead,  only  to  find,  as  he  breathed  a 
sigh  of  relief,  that  new  cases  were  falling  and  filling 
the  sick  bay  to  overflowing  and  pouring  out  into  the 
cabanas.  There  had  been  some  hundred  souls  in 
the  pueblo.  There  still  lingered  fourscore. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  boy  whose  mother 
had  died  and  who  had  wailed  in  a  corner  of  the 
chapel,  sunk  through  a  slow  process  of  harrowing 
ravages  into  the  algid  stage  of  the  scourge. 
Morales  carried  out  the  little  fellow.  The  boy  was 
chattering  with  subnormal  cold.  Morales  im- 
mersed him  in  the  steaming  bathing  pool. 

Later,  returned  to  the  sick  bay,  in  making  an  in- 
cision with  a  penknife  to  inject  into  one  of  the 
boy's  lesser  veins  a  solution  of  salt,  the  knife  slipped 
beneath  the  matador's  grasp  and  cut  his  own  hand. 
He  gave  the  cut  no  attention.  He  did  not  even 
bother  to  bind  it  up.  Coming  out  into  the  open,  to 
lift  the  lower  floodgate  which  would  allow  the  in- 
fected water  to  sluice  out,  he  plunged  the  wounded 
member  full  into  the  hot  pool. 

He  was  surprised  but  no  whit  frightened  when,  an 
hour  later,  a  painful  throbbing  began  to  chase  up 
and  down  his  arm  from  that  open  gash  in  his  hand. 
He  attempted  quickly  to  close  the  cut  by  packing  it 
with  a  little  salt.  Then,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
with  incomprehension,  fearlessly  he  sought  to  forget 
about  it.  He  busied  himself  doling  out  to  his  many 
querulous  patients  copious  doses  of  aperient  and 
astringent  medicines. 

By  nightfall,  he  was  stretched  in  the  hospital, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  243 

prostrated  from  the  plague.  The  change  in  him  was 
at  once  inconceivable  and  appalling.  The  man  that 
in  the  morning  had  been  so  strong  with  firmness  of 
spirit,  fortitude  of  soul,  and  a  large  enveloping  ten- 
derness of  heart,  was  now  cramped  with  griping, 
unendurable  pangs  and  as  weak  of  pulse,  voice,  and 
body  as  an  old,  old  man. 

From  having  served  so  many  sick,  Morales  knew 
what  he  needed.  He  called  for  a  mild  opiate. 

Jacques  Ferou  approached  the  end  of  the  plat- 
form. Save  for  two  convalescing  serranos  with 
matted  hair  and  irregular  features  who  were  now 
acting,  perforce,  as  nurses,  Ferou  was  the  only  able- 
bodied  man  in  the  hospital. 

The  Frenchman  watched  the  sufferings  of  the 
matador  with  small,  bright  slaty  eyes.  The  trick 
of  the  eyelids,  drooping  at  the  outer  corners,  lent 
him  a  calculating  sinister  aspect.  He  curled  one 
spike  of  his  straw-colored  mustache. 

"I  will  give  you  the  opiate,  monsenor,  but  you 
must  pay  for  it!  You  must  pay  five  hundred 
pesetas !  " 

Morales  attempted  to  sit  up.  But  he  could  not 
sit  up. 

"Wounds  of  Christ ! "  he  gasped  in  a  husky 
whisper.  "What  is  this — a  fancy  or  some  mistake 
of  my  ears?  Has  the  disease  touched  my  brain? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  Senor  Ferou !  "  he  almost  sup- 
plicated. 

"It  is  neither  the  mistake  nor  the  fancy,"  re- 
turned the  Frenchman  in  coldly  even  tones.  "It  is 
merely  that  you  are  a  rich  man,  Monsenor  Morales, 
and  that  you  can  afford  to  pay.  These  others  are 


244  THE  WOLF-CUB 

only  hungry  serranos  and  underpaid  bullfighters. 
Even  Quesada  there,  with  his  feverish  imaginings, 
is  but  a  poor  hounded  thief.  He  has  no  money/' 

As  if  he  were  about  to  smile  at  some  choice  recol- 
lection, the  nostrils  of  his  high  predatory  nose 
twitched,  the  hard  grim  lines  about  his  mouth  mo- 
mentarily widened  and  deepened.  But  he  did  not 
smile.  In  a  voice  that  sounded  to  the  matador  like 
pulsing  chill  points  of  steel,  he  went  on: 

"But  you,  Monsenor  Morales;  you  withdrew  a 
large  sum  by  wire  from  the  Bank  of  Spain.  It  was 
when  we  first  started  on  this  little  expedition,  and 
it  was  so  much  money  we  were  indeed  astounded. 
Dicenta,  the  Jewish  cacique  of  Alcazar  de  San 
Juan,  cashed  that  order  for  you  in  many  peseta  bills. 
Most  of  those  bills  you  still  have  on  your  person. 
I  could  take  them  away  from  you  writh  a  little  force ; 
but  I  prefer  to  give  you  their  value  in  narcotics, 
medicines,  and  soups.  Sacre,  monsenor,  life  must 
be  worth  more  to  you  than  any  money,  eh?  " 

The  black  eyes  of  the  matador,  deep-sunken  from 
the  quick  ravages  of  the  disease,  blazed  up  at  Ferou 
as  if  they  would  sear  and  brand  his  ashy  face. 
Slowly  as  he  looked,  clamping  his  strong  white 
teeth  together  with  the  effort,  Morales  straight- 
ened out  his  contracted  right  arm  and  felt,  beneath 
the  blanket,  for  the  revolver  at  his  waist. 

An  astounded  look  that  changed  in  a  rush  to 
one  of  stupefied  dismay  staggered  his  eyes.  The 
revolver  was  gone!  There  was  not  even  sheathed 
knife  or  belt! 

Ferou  watched  the  matador's  eyes,  his  lids  con- 
tinuing to  droop  with  pitiless  analytical  scrutiny. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  245 

Significantly  he  tapped  the  heavy  revolver  that  hung 
at  his  own  belt.  And  he  laughed,  a  thin  chill  laugh. 

"You  forget,  monsenor.  I  am  the  only  man 
armed  in  the  barrio.  It  was  at  my  suggestion  that 
Senor  Carson  went  about  disarming  the  serranos. 
It  was  at  my  whisper,  when  your  cuadrilla  hesitated 
to  shed  their  weapons,  that  you  angrily  threw  off 
your  own  belt  and  gun.  I  have  hidden  them  all !  " 

He  threw  up  his  sharp  cinder-hued  face  in  an 
accession  of  pride.  Just  as,  on  the  Seville-to- 
Madrid,  he  had  acted  with  Felicidad,  so  now  he 
seemed  to  swell  with  pride,  to  grow  and  strut  with 
importance,  as  he  bared  thus  his  real  repulsive  self 
to  Morales. 

"Monsenor,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  do  not  know 
me ;  but  the  French  police  have  long  dreaded  me  as 
an  adept  and  fearsome  criminal.  I  am  a  White 
Wolf  of  Paris.  I  use  my  brain.  I  do  not  conceive 
and  carry  forward  a  plan  in  the  one  breath.  I  lay 
strings  long  in  advance,  and  then,  when  the  time 
is  fit  and  proper,  parbleu!  I  jerk. 

"Ah,  you  understand,  I  see!  It  is  thus  now.  I 
am  ruler  here.  I  am  the  only  man  armed  in  the 
village.  What  I  say — " 

Came  an  abrupt  and  alarming  interruption  from 
down  the  slant  of  the  platform.  Quesada  sat  rig- 
idly up.  His  forehead  pouring  sweat,  his  eyes  stark 
in  his  head,  his  hands  clutching  his  chest,  in  a  fright- 
ful voice  he  cried  out : 

"No,  no!  I  never  did  it.  Kill  me  if  you  will, 
but  by  the  Life,  you  must  believe  me !  It  was  some 
other  man  .  .  .  some  other  man  ...  !  " 

His  voice  fainted  away.     With  the  exertion  of 


246  THE  WOLF-CUB 

shouting,  with  the  fear  of  his  grisly  fancies,  his 
face  darkened  with  congested  blood.  Completely 
exhausted,  he  fell  back  upon  the  platform. 

It  was  as  if  the  interruption  had  come  to 
strengthen  the  argument  of  Jacques  Ferou.  Over- 
whelmingly thereat  Morales  saw  how  powerless 
he  was.  Quesada  was  out  of  his  mind ;  John  Fre- 
mont Carson  was  on  the  rack  of  the  plague;  even 
the  peones  of  his  cuadrilla,  who  obedient  to  his 
command  might  have  aided  him,  were  stretched  out 
on  either  hand,  sick  and  helpless.  The  matador  was 
completely  at  the  mercy  of  the  Frenchman. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ONE  of  the  uncouth  serranos  bent  over  Quesada. 
To  mitigate  the  fever,  he  poured  some  concoction 
down  his  burning  throat. 

Morales'  tossing  head  came  to  an  abrupt  stop  on 
the  pillow.  A  sudden  hope  bourgeoned  in  his  dis- 
tracted eyes.  He  was  like  a  man  falling  down  a 
cliffside,  clutching  madly  at  an  adnascent  shrub. 
His  eyes  glowed  from  their  deep  sockets  like  pulsing 
coals.  Here  was  help  in  his  hour  of  need.  His 
eyes  seemed  fairly  to  devour  the  serrano. 

Ferou,  watching  all,  bent  sharply  toward  him. 

"But  you  forgot  again,  monsenor !  "  he  whispered. 
"You  have  burned  their  dead!  You  have  trans- 
gressed the  teachings  of  their  religion,  walked  rough- 
shod over  all  their  superstitious  dreads.  They  are 
my  men,  heart  and  soul ! 

"Ah,  Morales,  I  have  told  you,  I  lay  the  strings 
of  my  plots  long  in  advance !  It  was  I  who  gath- 
ered these  serranos  and  egged  them  on  at  that  re- 
bellion on  the  rock.  I  have  whispered  to  them  in 
the  long  nights.  They  believe  all  your  sanitary 
methods  are  tricks  of  the  devil  which  have  aided, 
rather  than  lessened  the  ravages  of  the  plague.  The 
fact  that  the  cholera  has  stricken  you  and  Quesada 
and  Carson  is  to  them  as  a  sign  from  on  high. 
With  the  death  of  you  three,  they  look  for  the  lift- 
ing of  the  scourge.  Sooner  than  aid  your  recov- 
ery, they  would  poison  you !  " 


248  THE  WOLF-CUB 

A  fit  of  retching,  sudden  and  violent,  seized 
Morales.  Ferou  moved  away.  When  Morales  re- 
covered from  the  griping  vice  of  the  fit,  the  French- 
man was  proffering  a  cup  of  some  darkish  mixture 
to  the  convalescing  banderillero  on  the  matador's 
left  hand. 

"Here,  Alfonso  Robledo,"  he  said  quite  loudly. 
"Drink  this  narcotic,  and  you  will  sleep  like  a  babe. 
It  is  only  fine  old  brandy  with  a  pinch  of  opium." 

It  was  just  the  mild  form  of  opiate  Morales 
craved.  Ferou  looked  over  at  the  matador  with 
the  words.  He  was  tormenting  Morales  with  the 
afflictions  of  a  Tantalus.  He  went  down  the  lane 
between  the  platforms,  most  solicitously  dosing 
each  sufferer  in  turn. 

Behind  the  Frenchman's  back,  surreptitiously,  the 
banderillero  Alfonso  Robledo  proffered  his  opiate 
to  Morales.  Morales  shook  his  head. 

"I  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  my  son,"  he  said 
in  a  feeble  husky  whisper ;  "but  it  is  not  right  that 
I  should  rob  you  of  that  which  your  debilitated  sys- 
tem needs.  We  are  both  sick  men." 

"But  I  am  recovering,  growing  stronger  hourly. 
Maestro,  you  have  just  slapped  down!"  The 
banderillero  became  quietly  yet  earnestly  impas- 
sioned. "Ah,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  my  brave 
espada  so  weak!  I  want  to  help.  Should  you  die 
through  sacrifice  to  me,  I  will  not  care  to  live!  I 
am  only  a  peon  of  your  cuadrilla ;  you  are  the  great 
matador.  My  loss  will  not  be  felt!  Take  it,  take 
it,  please,  Don  Manuel  of  my  soul !  " 

Morales  hesitated.     But  only  for  a  trice. 

"No,"    he    decided    with    heroic    stubbornness. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  249 

"This  Frenchman  can't  have  so  black  a  heart. 
Seguramente,  no!  He  is  but  teasing  me  to  test 
my  caliber.  If  I  must,  rather  than  rob  you,  Al- 
fonso, I  shall  pay  the  hawk !  " 

"Eh?"  broke  in  the  thin  nasal  voice  of  Ferou. 
Unaware,  he  had  returned  and  overheard  Morales' 
words.  "And  you  have  changed  your  mind,  Don 
Manuel  ?  You  are  willing  to  pay  ?  That  is  good ! 
Now  let  me  see ;  what  was  it  you  wanted  ?  " 

"I  think  your  joke  a  little  cruel,  Senor  Ferou. 
I  would  have  you  give  me  a  mild  opiate." 

"Ah,  yes;  brandy  and  an  opium  pill.  That  will 
cost  you  now  just  one  thousand  pesetas!  This 
wait,  which  you  think  such  a  cruel  joke,  Monsenor 
Morales,  has  cost  you  precisely  five  hundred  pesetas 
more !  " 

The  man  was  altogether  inhuman. 

"You  hawk,  you  vulture  of  the  slime,  you  blood- 
leech  !  "  execrated  Morales  in  a  furious  voice  that 
shook  through  his  lungs  like  a  hoarse  wind.  "I 
shall  rot  in  hell  before  ever  I  put  one  centesimo  into 
your  filthy  claws !  " 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His 
face  was  stiff  and  livid  with  restrained  bile. 

"I  leave  you  now,  Don  Manuel,"  he  said  with 
acid  politeness,  "to  visit  that  other  Eldorado,  Senor 
Carson.  Perhaps  mon  Americain  won't  think  so 
much  of  his  peseta  bills.  And  who  knows?  Per- 
haps the  great  espada  will  also  change  his  mind  by 
the  time  I  return !  " 

At  the  door,  he  turned  and  called  out  bitingly  to 
the  two  sullen  serranos: 

"You    will    see,    mis    paisanos,    that    Monsenor 


250  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Morales,  who  burned  your  dead,  will  want  for 
everything  and  get  nothing !  When  he  changes  his 
mind,  one  of  you  may  come  for  me !  " 

He  smiled  toward  Morales  his  peculiar  aggravat- 
ing smile;  then,  twisting  the  spikes  of  his  straw 
mustache,  swaggered  out  the  doorway. 

There  was  a  soft  thud  up  near  the  altar  at  the 
end  of  one  platform.  The  mountain  boy,  Gabriel, 
had  rolled  off  upon  the  ground.  On  discolored 
hands  and  knees  quaking  from  the  disease,  he  came 
creeping  with  stealthy  quietude  and  laborious 
feebleness  down  the  passageway.  Half-tilted  be- 
tween rigid  teeth,  he  held  a  tin  cup  containing  a 
preparation  in  wine  of  powdered  aromatic  chalk. 

He  had  achieved  half  the  length  of  the  runway 
when,  on  the  sudden,  one  of  the  serranos  discovered 
him.  The  fellow  roughly  swung  the  boy  up  under 
one  arm.  The  contents  of  the  tin  cup  was  spilled. 
The  boy  began  a  frenzied  squirming  and  kicking. 
In  a  tumult  of  febrile  revolt  and  piteous  pleading, 
he  wailed: 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go  to  him — to  Don  Manuel  of 
my  heart!  He  is  good,  he  is  brave,  he  is  like  the 
very  God  Himself !  He  is  sick  only  because  he 
helped  me  and  the  knife  slipped!  Ah,  Diego 
Lerida,  I  have  known  you  since  I  was  born.  Won't 
you  let  me  go,  won't  you  let  me  give  him  some- 
thing to  ease  the  pain?  He  did  the  same  for  the 
wife  of  you,  ere  the  good  Dios  called  her.  Only 
a  little  chalk,  Tio  Diego,  only  a  little  chalk  and 
wine. 

"No?  You  won't  let  me  go!  Then  may 
Satanas  claim  you  for  a  gnat  of  a  dunghill — you 


THE  WOLF-CUB  251 

and  all  your  vile  spawn!  And  may  the  Christ  and 
His  Compassionate  Mother  bring  hope  and  health 
to  my  own  brave  espada — " 

Came  a  hoarse  shout  from  Morales :  "Hola,  my 
brave  little  golden  one!  I  drink  to  you,  Gabriel- 
lito!" 

And  accepting  the  lesser  of  the  two  sacrifices, 
Morales  lifted  from  between  the  banderillero  and 
himself  the  cup  containing  the  partly  finished 
brandy,  and  quaffed  it  down  in  one  great  draught. 

He  was  none  too  soon.  With  an  oath  of  com- 
mingled surprise,  anger  and  dismay,  the  second 
serrano  leaped  forward  and  lunged  at  the  matador. 
He  only  succeeded  in  knocking  the  empty  cup  from 
Morales'  hand. 

Save  then  for  the  feverish  Quesada  and  those 
who  slept  under  the  influence  of  narcotics  or  the 
cold  pall  of  death,  the  whole  sick  bay  chortled  with 
nightmare  hoarseness  at  the  frustrated  and  sud- 
denly apprehensive  serranos. 

The  hours  snailed  by.  While  Manuel  Morales 
tossed  and  mumbled  in  painful  slumber,  the  moun- 
tain boy  watched  him  steadily  from  down  the  lane 
of  blanketed  figures.  There  was  in  his  unblinking, 
deep-socketed  eyes  that  highest  emotion  one  can 
exercise  toward  another  human  being.  Morales 
had  called  him  his  dorado,  his  brave  little  golden 
one!  In  his  eyes  was  a  reverence  that  amounted 
to  venerating  love,  wistful  adoration! 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IT  was  a  strangely  assorted  trio.  Over  the  lip 
of  the  great  rock  on  the  .brink  of  the  village  of 
Minas  de  la  Sierra  extended  the  athletic  shoulders 
and  sharp  ashy  face  of  Jacques  Ferou,  lying  flat 
on  his  stomach.  Below  in  the  gorge  at  the  foot 
of  the  corkscrew  goat  path,  straining  their  necks 
backward  and  looking  up,  were  the  two  Gnardias 
Civiles,  Pascual  Montara  and  Sergeant  Esteban 
Alvarado.  All  three  were  deeply  absorbed  in  a 
distance-spanning  conversation. 

"That  Americain  lied ! "  the  Frenchman  was 
shouting  down  with  heated  earnestness.  "Jacinto 
Quesada  is  himself  in  this  village.  He  has  been 
sick  with  the  great  illness  and  with  a  mad  fever, 
too;  but  this  morning  his  head  is  once  more  his 
own,  and  he  is  repairing  rapidly  in  strength.  He  is 
here,  I  tell  you!  " 

"Muy  bueno !  "  shouted  back  the  old  sergeant  with 
glad  resolution.  "We  will  come  up  for  him  im- 
mediately !  " 

"Non,  non,  mi  sargento !  There  is  the  pestilence 
to  fear,  and  there  is  also  my  revolver  which  barks 
no,  no! " 

"What  would  you,  then  ? "  asked  sullenly  that 
apelike  one,  Montara. 

Now,  so  thoroughly  were  the  trio  engrossed  in 
the  matter  of  words,  that  their  minds  were  com- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  253 

pletely  monopolized  and  all  other  perceptions  were 
excluded  from  their  senses.  They  did  not  hear 
the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  approaching  up  the 
gorge.  When  that  clatter  abruptly  ceased,  their  un- 
heeding ears  received  no  sensation  of  change  or 
difference. 

They  did  not  know  that,  five  yards  behind  the 
policeman,  concealed  from  above  by  the  leafy 
branches  of  pines  and  alders  and  from  the  guards- 
men ahead  by  a  thick  underwood  of  tall  buckthorn 
and  entangled  genista,  a  horseman  had  halted  and 
now,  leaning  his  two  hands  upon  the  pommel  of 
the  saddle,  was  observing  them  attentively. 

He  was  quite  a  rememberable-looking  man.  His 
hair  was  white;  his  skin  from  exposure  to  wind 
and  weather  was  a  deep  swarth;  and  his  eyes  were 
gray.  Not  many  Spaniards  have  gray  eyes.  The 
eyes  of  Don  Jaime  de  Torreblanca  y  Moncada  were 
a  clear,  cold,  agate-gray.  All  in  all,  there  was 
about  his  appearance,  especially  the  long  aquiline 
nose,  the  stony  eyes  and  pointed  white  beard,  some- 
thing which  seemed  to  hearken  back  to  the  days 
of  ruffs  and  ready  swords — the  days  of  the  ter- 
rible Spanish  infantry,  the  Armada,  the  Bigotes, 
the  "Bearded  Men,"  the  Conquistadores. 

He  strained  his  eyes  through  the  greeny  plait 
above  him.  Suddenly,  as  he  glimpsed  the  man 
sprawled  on  the  great  rock,  his  narrow  face  blanched 
as  if  gutted  of  blood;  a  look  of  savage  ferocity 
leaped  into  his  eyes;  and  his  hand  strayed  back  to 
the  heavy  horse  pistol  slung  from  the  saddle. 

But  abruptly  his  reaching  hand  stopped.  A  few 
random  words  of  the  trio's  conversation  had  im- 


254  THE  WOLF-CUB 

pinged   upon  his  ears  and   aroused  his  curiosity. 

"There  is  something  foul  going  forward  here !  " 
he  breathed  vehemently.  "I  shall  listen.  Of  what 
use  to  snap  off  the  snake's  head,  now  and  impetu- 
ously? Let  him  bare  his  fangs.  With  cold  pa- 
tience, even  as  the  Christ  waits  for  his  Judgment 
Day,  I  will  wait  for  my  moment  of  vengeance  on 
this  creature !  " 

Don  Jaime  was  a  grandee  of  Spain,  one  entitled 
to  wear  his  hat  in  the  presence  of  his  monarch. 
Well  now,  as  he  applied  his  ear  to  the  conversa- 
tion, his  stony  eyes  filled  with  a  profundity  of 
contempt  that  none  but  a  grandee  could  plumb. 
Carajo!  this  was  no  ordinary  conversation  he  was 
overhearing.  It  was  the  bartering  for  money  of 
the  living  body  of  a  man ! 

Shouted  down  Ferou,  repeating  the  last  question 
of  Montara: 

"What  would  I,  what  would  I  have  you  do? 
Oh,  a  very  little,  monsenores  policemen — I  would 
merely  have  you  attend  to  the  simple  matter  of  my 
reward.  I  will  do  all  the  rest.  For  the  reward,  I 
will  deliver  Quesada  up  to  you — I  will  deliver  him 
walking  upon  his  own  two  legs,  so  you  will  not 
have  to  touch  his  infectious  clothes.  It  is  good, 
what?  And  you  will  give  me  the  reward  of  ten 
thousand  pesetas,  eh?  " 

"When  you  have  done  all  that  you  say  you  will 
do,"  returned  the  old  sergeant,  sternly  noncom- 
mittal, "then,  and  not  before,  shall  you  have  earned 
the  ten  thousand  pesetas.  But  you  need  have  no 
fears  for  the  money!  When  I  shoot  down  this 
sacrilegious  swollen  toad  of  a  Quesada,  I  shall  make 


THE  WOLF-CUB  255 

my  report  to  headquarters  at  Getafe.  Your 
name — " 

"It  is  Jacques  Ferou." 

"I  will  remember,  Senor  Don  Jacques  Ferou. 
You  shall  be  given  all  due  credit.  In  two  weeks' 
time  from  the  day  you  deliver  Jacinto  Quesada  to 
us,  you  can  collect  the  reward  by  presenting  yourself 
at  Getafe.  Most  certairily,  Spain  sha1!  consider 
herself  the  best  off  in  the  bargain !  " 

"Tres  bien !  "  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  lapsing 
with  emotion  into  his  native  tongue;  then  recover- 
ing: "It  is  good.  I  agree." 

"When  may  we  expect  you  with  the  heretical 
dog?"  asked  Montara. 

"To-morrow  at  noon.  When  this  great  rock  is 
hot  with  midday  glare,  I  will  force  him  out  here, 
my  gun  nuzzling  his  back.  You  policemen  can 
shoot  him  from  below." 

Vigorously  the  old  sergeant  nodded  his  polished 
tricorn  hat. 

"Muy  bueno !  "  he  approved  heartily.  Then  in 
adieu:  "Go  thou  thy  way  with  God!  " 

"Always  at  the  feet  of  the  Guardia  Civil  who 
keep  the  peace  of  Spain,"  ended  the  man  on  the 
rock,  after  the  fashion  of  Spanish  courtesy.  He 
withdrew  from  view,  thereupon,  much  as  a  turtle's 
head  withdraws  from  view  between  its  carapax 
and  plastron  shells. 

Don  Jaime  crashed  his  rawboned  old  horse 
through  the  tall  buckthorn  and  entangled  genista. 

"Alto  a  la  Guardia  Civil ! "  thundered  Montara, 
springing  back  and  jerking  his  carbine  to  his  shoul- 
der. 


256  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"Down,  you  apelike  one!"  commanded  the  aged 
sergeant.  "Can't  you  see?  It  is  the  hidalgo  doc- 
tor, Don  Jaime  de  Torreblanca  y  Moncada !  "  And 
he  swept  his  tricorn  hat  off  his  close-clipped  white 
head. 

Don  Jaime  reined  in  his  horse  to  a  quick  stop. 
He  disdained  altogether  the  mortified  Montara.  He 
looked  down  at  the  bared  white  head,  the  knife- 
sharp  white  beard,  and  the  lean  and  haughty  face 
of  the  aged  sergeant. 

It  was,  then,  as  if  he  looked  down  upon  a  singular 
edition  of  himself.  Don  Jaime  was  a  grandee  by 
birth  and  breeding,  and  these  things  amount  in 
Spain;  but  the  old  sergeant  was  no  less  grand  with 
adamantine  adhesion  to  principle,  with  eagle-stern- 
ness and  eagle-haughtiness.  They  eyed  each  other 
with  mutual  recognition  and  respect.  They  were 
both  of  the  same  old  Spanish  imperial  school,  un- 
forgiving of  injury,  inexorable  to  avenge. 

Said  the  doctor,  "Peace  be  to  you,  mi  sargento." 

"And  to  you  peace,  Don  Jaime  of  my  soul." 

"But  what  is  this  scheme  I  hear  you  hatching?  " 

"It  is  a  way  we  have  of  keeping  the  peace  of 
Spain." 

"Cannot  you  drag  down  the  Wolf-Cub  without 
the  aid  of  this  blood-hound,  Ferou?  " 

"We  of  the  Guardia  Civil  are  not  podencos  that 
can  drag  down  the  Wrolf  in  the  open.  Senor  Don 
Dios !  we  have  tried  and  each  time  failed !  " 

"But  the  man  Ferou  is  a  human  leech!  Oh,  I 
overheard  your  secret  talk.  I  tell  you,  the  French- 
man sucks  life-blood  for  money!  " 

"It  is  thief  catch  thief,  Don  Jaime.     The  Wolf- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  257 

Cub,  Quesada,  is  a  cancer  in  the  side  of  Spain. 
And  Spain  must  be  healed.  We  will  loose  the 
leech  to  suck  this  evil  cancer  from  the  side  of 
Spain!" 

"You  are  hatching  a  snake's  egg,  mi  gran  cabal- 
lero.  The  fruit  of  it  shall  stink  in  the  nostrils  of 
all  brave  Moors !  You  may  take  your  oath  on  that, 
Don  Esteban !  I  for  one  will  be  no  party  to  it ! " 

"No  lo  quiera  Dios!  God  forbid,  proud  Tor- 
reblanca  y  Moncada,  that  we  of  the  police  should 
expect  your  aid!  You  have  a  higher  call.  Up  in 
Minas  de  la  Sierra,  there  is  wailing  and  much  sick- 
ness— ah,  so  many  men  have  slapped  under  and 
died,  and  so  many  more  suffer  in  earthly  purga- 
tory!" 

"Sea  como  Dios  quiera !  "  muttered  Don  Jaime. 
"God's  will  be  done!" 

The  sergeant  looked  up  at  him,  old  eyes  alive  with 
strange  fervor. 

"They  say  of  you,  Don  Jaime — si,  and  of  me, 
too! — that  we  have  granite  boulders  for  hearts. 
But  I  know.  Arrogante  Torreblanca  y  Moncada 
is  very  tender  with  the  sick.  He  has  hands  of 
gold  for  calling  one  back  to  life  and  for  closing 
softly  the  lids  of  the  dying.  Vaya,  mi  gran  hidalgo 
doctor!  Go  thou  in  the  companionship  of  the  sub- 
lime Christ  and  Mary,  the  All  Compassionate !  " 

He  stepped  to  one  side.  Don  Jaime  bade  him  a 
courteous  adieu.  Then,  with  all  the  hauteur  of 
one  riding  an  Arabian  barb,  sitting  rigid  in  the 
saddle,  the  senor  doctor  loped  his  rawboned  old  nag 
up  the  winding  goat  path  toward  the  barrio. 

The  policeman  looked  after  him.     Pascual  Mon- 


258  THE  WOLF-CUB 

tara  chewed  fiercely  the  ends  of  his  black  mustache. 
He  muttered : 

"To-morrow  at  noon.  When  that  great  rock  is 
hot  with  midday  glare,  this  hombre  Jacques  Ferou 
will  force  the  Sacrilegious  One  out  upon  the  brink." 

"Carajo,  yes!"  grimly  agreed  the  old  sergeant. 
"And  we  of  the  Guardia  Civil  will  shoot  him  from 
below!" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

A  MAN  wasted  from  disease  sat,  all  this  while, 
in  the  morning  sunlight  on  a  chair  tilted  back 
against  one  whitewashed  wall  of  the  village  chapel. 
His  young  haggard  face  was  screwed  up,  and  he 
frowned  through  Moorish  amber  eyes  toward  where, 
some  distance  below,  the  Frenchman  sprawled  on 
the  great  rock  at  the  brink  of  the  village.  He 
could  not  account  for  the  unseemly  posture  and 
gesticulating  hands  and  head  of  the  Frenchman. 

No  word  of  Ferou's  bartering  reached  him.  He 
lacked  even  one  clue  to  the  strange  and  absorbing 
business  going  forward.  He  did  not  know  that  the 
waiting  members  of  the  Guardia  Civil  had  advanced 
up  the  gorge  and  now,  out  of  sight,  down  at  the 
foot  of  the  goat  path,  were  making  cold-blooded 
arrangement  with  the  Frenchman  for  the  delivery 
of  his  own  living  body! 

Ouesada  lacked  the  strength  which  would  urge 
him  boldly  to  investigate.  And  he  was  too  weak  to 
concentrate  his  mind,  for  any  length  of  time,  on 
an  apparently  unsolvable  problem.  He  shrugged 
aside  his  perplexity,  after  a  little,  and  sunk  back 
into  that  trick  of  strategic  plotting  so  natural  to 
the  feeble  in  body  but  strong  in  spirit. 

Twisting  his  head  about,  he  looked  through  the 
doorway  into  the  hospital.  Within,  in  that  fetid 
moaning  place  where  lay  the  sick  Morales,  there 
were  no  attending  serranos;  they  had  finished  their 


26o  THE  WOLF-CUB 

rounds  for  the  nonce.  Below  on  the  great  rock,  the 
engrossing  and  unaccountable  business  had  every 
appearance  of  engaging  Ferou  for  some  time.  The 
way  was  clear. 

Quesada  thumped  down  his  tilted  chair  and 
walked  on  weakly  rickety  legs  to  where,  near  the 
cork-oak  tree  in  the  center  of  the  uneven  street,  a 
number  of  the  villagers  were  brewing  a  puchero  in 
a  great  iron  pot. 

"Come,  mis  paisanos !  "  he  said  in  a  voice  sur- 
prisingly commanding  for  one  so  enervated  from 
disease.  "Ladle  out  to  me  a  bowl  of  the  stew." 

"We  have  no  orders  to  refuse  you,  Don  Jacinto," 
answered  one  of  the  men  obsequiously.  "We  only 
mind  that  Morales  and  the  Americano  should  get 
none." 

The  bandolero  snorted,  but  held  his  peace.  He 
took  the  steaming  earthen  bowl  proffered  him ;  then 
quaking  like  one  palsied,  exerting  a  deal  of  effort 
so  as  not  to  spill  a  drop  of  the  precious  hari- 
cot, he  slowly  retraced  his  steps  toward  the  sick 
bay. 

Here  he  glanced  back  over  one  shoulder.  The 
serranos  had  returned  to  the  business  of  stirring 
the  puchero;  they  were  not  watching  him.  In  he 
staggered,  through  the  chapel  doorway,  to  share 
the  soup  of  the  stew  with  the  sick  matador,  Manuel 
Morales. 

Minutes  clicked  by — a  good  ten  minutes. 

Within  the  cabana  where  Carson  convalesced, 
Felicidad  was  sitting  in  a  chair  at  the  American's 
bedside,  her  golden  head  nodding  with  drowsiness, 
when  the  blut  of  approaching  feet  on  the  earthen 


THE  WOLF-CUB  261 

floor  startled  her  into  alertness.  She  saw  the  slim 
gray-suited  form  of  the  Frenchman  darkening  the 
doorway.  Her  blue  eyes  widened  and  filled  with 
apprehension  and  deep  abhorrence.  She  shuddered 
involuntarily  and  shrunk  back  in  the  chair. 

But  Ferou  only  bowed  in  mock  respect. 

"Senor  Carson,"  he  addressed  the  American,  "my 
serranos  are  stewing,  out  in  the  street,  a  fine  savory 
ragout  of  meat  and  lentils.  Would  you  care  for 
some  of  the  soup  ?  It  would  be  very  strength-giv- 
ing." 

Carson,  his  angular  hollow-cheeked  face  white 
as  the  pillow  pressed  about  it,  made  no  answering 
movement  of  head  or  mouth.  With  eyes  deep- 
sunken  and  chilly  blue  as  high  mountain  lakes,  he 
looked  up  at  the  Frenchman  unblinkingly. 

"It  will  be  very  simple,  monsenor,"  continued 
Ferou  suavely,  the  hard  lines  deepening  about  his 
mouth  in  a  grim  smile.  "All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
give  me  one  of  your  five-thousand  peseta  bills! 
Since  yesterday,  'the  price  of  lentils  and  meat  has 
soared  on  these  mountains.  But  to  you  who  are 
so  rich,  that  is  no  importa.  Only  five  thousand 
pesetas  for  a  bowl  of  soup!  " 

All  at  once,  like  an  unexpectedly  loosed  avalanche, 
the  girl  was  on  her  feet,  her  blue  eyes  coldly  ablaze 
like  points  of  steel. 

"You — you  thief!  You  know  he  has  left  only 
one  bill  of  five  thousand  pesetas!  You  have  taken 
all  the  others!  Oh,  you  rapacious  hawk,  you  vile, 
vile  vulture !  "  she  cried  out,  shuddering  with  hor- 
rid remembrance  and  a  sudden  increase  of  detesta- 
tion. "You  would  rob  him  of  his  all,  everything! 


262  THE  WOLF-CUB 

You  would  have  him  end  his  days  in  want  and  mis- 
ery, just  like  the  pobre  padre  of  me!  " 

The  Frenchman  did  not  wither  beneath  her  scorn. 
He  shoved  his  sharp  blond  head  nearer  her.  And 
his  face  livid  with  stirred-up  bile,  his  slate-colored 
eyes  narrowed  to  mere  blazing  slits,  he  bared  his 
long  white  teeth  in  a  passionate  carnivorous  snarl 
of  envenomed  hate. 

"You  baggage,  you  treacherous  snake!  I'll  show 
you  what !  When  I  get  done  my  work  in  this  barrio, 
you'll  go  with  me.  Mon  Dieu,  I'll  show  you  how  an 
Apache  Parisien  treats  one  such  as  you !  " 

The  movement  was  unexpected.  Sudden  as  the 
sweep  of  a  hawk,  he  bent  his  tall  athletic  body  for- 
ward sharply  and  made  a  grab  at  her  wrist ! 

She  recoiled  from  him.  The  nostrils  of  his  high 
predatory  nose  twitching  and  working,  his  whole 
ashy  face  working  and  grimacing  with  fury  like 
a  horrible  mask  of  rubber,  he  leaped  after  her. 
She  sidled  along  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Trembling 
in  every  limb  like  a  terrorized  doe,  she  retreated 
out  the  doorway. 

Bent  sharply  forward,  bounding  from  spot  to 
spot  like  a  leopard,  the  Frenchman  followed. 

The  American  attempted  to  lift  his  head  from  the 
pillow.  He  fell  back  like  a  load  of  lead.  He 
worked  his  hands  together  and  groaned  aloud  at 
his  helplessness. 

Came  a  sudden  clatter  of  horse's  hoofs  out  in 
the  village;  then  the  loud  shaking  voice  of  a  man: 

"Alto !  Halt,  you  nameless  wench !  You  have 
soiled  my  honor,  profaned  my  name,  defiled  my 
blood !  Heart  of  God,  you  must  die !  " 


THE  WOLF-CUB  263 

It  was  not  the  voice  of  the  Frenchman.  It  was 
the  voice  of  Don  Jaime  de  Torreblanca  y  Moncada. 
The  terrible  doctor  had  come ! 

Sitting  stark  upright  upon  his  horse  on  the  great 
rock  at  the  brink  of  the  village,  his  narrow  face  a 
cinder-gray,  Don  Jaime  was  leveling  his  huge  horse- 
pistol  at  the  backing  form  of  the  golden-haired 
girl! 

"Ha !  "  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  his  eyes  light- 
ing up  like  sunlight  on  ice,  his  grimacing  face 
wreathing  into  an  outrageous  smile.  "It  is  the 
haughty  hidalgo  come  to  wipe  out  his  dishonor  in 
the  blood  of  ma  cherie  Felicidad!  " 

With  a  laugh  that  was  worse  than  brutal,  that 
was  pitiless  and  fiendish  at  such  a  time,  he  sprung 
back  into  the  dark  shelter  of  the  doorway. 

The  frail  slip  of  a  girl  was  left,  unaided  and 
alone,  to  face  the  avenger. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ATTRACTED  by  the  vibrant  loud  outcry  of  the 
terrible  doctor,  Jacinto  Quesada  put  down  the 
earthen  bowl  of  stew,  left  the  bedside  of  the  sick 
Morales,  and  showed  himself  in  the  doorway  of 
the  hospital.  With  weakness  his  rickety  legs  tot- 
tered under  him;  with  weakness  the  world  reeled 
and  swam  before  his  eyes.  He  shaded  his  eyes 
with  a  pale  and  unsteady  hand  and  peered  out  into 
the  cold  sunlight. 

He  understood  thereat.  Down  at  the  end  of  the 
uneven  street,  on  the  great  rock  at  the  brink  of  the 
village,  bulked  Calamity  on  horseback! 

Quesada  clutched  at  the  jamb  of  the  door.  Shak- 
ing like  a  tag  of  paper  in  an  ugly  wind,  for  an  in- 
tolerable moment  he  clung  there.  Then  all  at  once, 
in  a  blind  broken-legged  stagger,  out  into  the  street 
he  lurched. 

With  every  leaden  stride,  he  seemed  to  gather  to 
his  need  what  scattered  rags  and  tatters  of  strength 
he  yet  possessed.  His  legs  straightened  under  him 
somewhat;  his  heavy  toppling  shoulders  came  up. 

On  the  sudden,  he  slewed  completely  round. 
Back  the  way  he  had  come,  back  toward  the  sick 
bay,  he  pitched. 

But  again  and  all  on  a  sudden,  he  halted.  He 
threw  his  arms  aloft,  he  lifted  drawn  face  to  the 
cold  gray  sky.  Hoarsely  he  cried  out: 


THE  WOLF-CUB  265 

"Give  me  strength!  Senor  Don  Dios,  give  me 
strength  to  do  that  which  I  now  must  do ! " 

On  he  sped  back  toward  the  hospital.  And  his 
feet  pounded  down  and  up,  down  and  up  without 
infirmity,  without  numb  and  leaden  shuffle.  Gone 
were  the  staggering  lurch,  the  sagging  shoulders,  the 
rolling  giddying  head.  Gone  utterly  all  the  vari- 
ous stigmata  of  disease-engendered  weakness! 

He  was  like  a  man  who,  suddenly  overwhelmed 
by  an  ocean  of  water,  casts  off  his  clogging  gar- 
ments and  strikes  out  nimbly  and  heartily.  He  was 
altogether  a  new  man,  agile  to  move,  galvanically 
energized.  He  was  mighty  with  an  unwonted 
strength. 

It  was  not  a  body  strength.  It  was  a  strength 
above  body  strength,  a  strength  beyond  body 
strength.  It  was  that  strength  secreted  deep  down 
but  seldom  drawn  upon,  that  strength  which  lifts 
some  men  up  and  steels  them  to  their  endeavors  in 
moments  of  prodigious  stress.  It  was  that  epic 
strength  which  makes  of  weaklings,  cold-eyed  and 
high-handed  heroes! 

Something  must  be  done  to  thwart  the  granite  will 
of  the  implacable  Don  Jaime.  There  was  need  for 
a  man.  There  was  no  time  to  lose. 

Quick  as  an  ape,  Quesada  bounded  through  the 
hospital  doorway.  Down  the  runway  between  the 
platforms  and  the  dying  men,  he  dashed.  At  the 
end  of  the  smelly  place,  near  the  dingy  altar,  he 
halted.  There,  on  the  slant  of  the  pine  slabs,  lay 
the  disease-wasted  form  of  little  Gabriel,  the  moun- 
tain boy. 

He  bent  over  the  pitifully  sick  child.     Carefully, 


266  THE  WOLF-CUB 

round  and  round  the  puny  little  body,  he  swathed 
the  tossed  and  crumpled  blanket.  Then  up  in  his 
two  arms  he  lifted  the  blanketed  boy  and  bore  him 
back  along  the  runway,  out  the  hospital  door. 

The  child  rested  his  head  like  an  infant  in  Ques- 
ada's  neck;  he  raised  to  the  gaunt  face  of  the 
bandolero,  two  dull  and  feebly  wondering  eyes.  A 
great  pity  smote  Quesada.  Convulsively  his  arms 
tightened  about  the  boy.  He  felt  suddenly  weak, 
almost  unmanned.  For  the  moment  he  could  not 
continue  on. 

He  put  his  mouth  close  to  the  cradled  head  of 
the  boy. 

"Ah,  forgive  me,  nino  of  my  soul !  "  he  whispered 
fervently.  "I  do  not  desire  to  be  brutal.  I  de- 
sire only  to  save  our  good  Felicidad  from  cruel 
death  at  her  father's  hands." 

Gabriel  smuggled  his  arm  about  the  bandolero's 
neck.  It  was  a  mute  but  trustful  answer.  Ques- 
ada looked  over  one  shoulder  to  call  back  through 
the  doorway: 

"Alfonso  Robledo!  You  can  walk.  Lend  a 
hand  here,  man !  Follow  me !  " 

Then  down  the  long  uneven  street  he  ran,  the 
blanketed  form  of  Gabriel  borne  before  him  in  his 
tight  but  tender  arms. 

Everything  was  happening  with  breathless  veloc- 
ity, in  a  rush,  in  hardly  an  appreciable  flicker  of 
time. 

As  Quesada  went  by,  from  deep  in  the  shadowy 
doorways  of  their  cabanas,  the  mountaineers  of 
Minas  de  la  Sierra  peered  forth  at  him.  They  were 
like  so  many  beady-eyed  lizards  in  so  many  dark 


THE  WOLF-CUB  267 

crevices.  At  the  first  rustle  of  danger  they  had  hid 
themselves. 

No  sound  came  from  the  huts.  But  once  Quesada 
had  put  them  behind  two  by  two,  there  breathed  up, 
from  each  cabana,  an  aghast  whisper : 

"Ah,  God  in  Heaven!  There  goes  Jacinto  Ques- 
ada, and  our  own  little  Gabriel  in  the  two  brave 
arms  of  him!  And  Alfonso — Alfonso  Robledo 
tottering  after!  What  would  they?  Turn  the 
hidalgo  doctor  from  his  terrible  purpose?  Ave 
Maria  Purissima!  " 

Where  trivial  anxieties  talk  and  gesticulate,  there 
great  anxieties  stand  dumb  and  make  no  sign. 

Thus  with  the  two  principals  in  the  on-sweeping 
tragedy.  Mute  and  motionless  as  boulders  of 
basalt,  they  stood  transfixed  against  that  steely 
background  of  cold  sky  and  glacial  desolate  moun- 
tains— the  one  bulking  high  on  horseback  like  some 
black-browed  Destroying  Angel,  the  other  petrified 
below  him  in  the  street,  a  pale  flower  of  a  girl. 

They  did  not  hear  the  whispers  from  the  cabanas, 
those  whispers  that  were  like  the  murmurings  which 
come  with  the  inchoation  of  a  great  storm  or  an 
earthquake.  They  did  not  see  Quesada  swinging 
fast  down  the  street,  the  blanketed  form  of  Gabriel 
in  his  arms  and  the  sick  bullfighter,  swathed  In- 
dian-like in  another  blanket,  lurching  and  tottering 
behind  him.  They  had  ears  and  eyes  only  for  the 
grim  and  calamitous  business  at  hand. 

Poor  Felicidad!  For  a  long  unendurable  in- 
terval, stupefied  by  the  shock  of  the  hidalgo's  sud- 
den coming,  she  stood  terrorized  and  iced  with  dis- 
may. Then  the  appalling  desperation  of  her  ex- 


268  THE  WOLF-CUB 

tremity  struck  home  to  her.  A  violent  tremor 
shook  through  her  ivory  and  gold  form,  her  strength 
ebbed  away,  her  knees  gave  under  her,  and  she  be- 
gan to  fall. 

But  no!  Out  of  her  memory  leaped  like  scalding 
vitriol  the  words  with  which  Don  Jaime  had  greeted 
her. 

"Halt,  you  nameless  wench !  " 

And,  from  deep  in  her  being,  rushed  forth  to 
hearten  and  uphold  her  a  new,  surprising  reserve 
of  strength  and  courage.  With  an  unconscious  but 
fine  little  movement  of  hauteur,  she  drew  herself 
erect. 

He  had  called  her  a  nameless  wench.  Well,  she 
would  show  this  harsh  hidalgo  there  was  blood  and 
pride  in  her  yet.  She  would  show  him  she  knew 
how  to  die  bravely,  proudly — aye,  in  a  manner 
wholly  befitting  a  Torreblanca  y  Moncada ! 

The  golden  head,  that  was  so  rare  in  one  Cas- 
tilian,  lifted  up.  Up  she  gazed  at  the  avenger  out 
of  fearless  and  scornful  blue  eyes. 

For  a  vehement  moment,  an  emphatic  quivering 
trice,  over  the  long  glittering  barrel  of  the  horse- 
pistol,  Don  Jaime  answered  her  gaze. 

Za,  he  knew  the  jade!  She  had  soiled  his  honor, 
profaned  his  name,  defiled  his  blood!  She  had  run 
off  with  a  creature  who  had  no  more  decency  than 
to  rob  the  father  of  all  his  money,  while  he  stole 
from  him  also  his  only  child !  Name  of  God !  how 
he  despised  her! 

Like  was  he,  then,  to  that  morose  and  vindictive 
Jehovah  of  the  ancient  Jews.  His  hand  tightened 
on  the  heavy  butt.  There  was,  in  the  cold  stillness, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  269 

the  sharp  click  of  an  old-fashioned  pistol  being 
cocked ! 

Harshly  the  sound  cracked  against  the  ears  of 
Jacinto  Quesada.  His  running  body  lurched  for- 
ward in  a  desperate  spurt.  He  stumbled  against 
the  startled  nag.  He  held  up  in  his  arms  to  the 
doctor  the  blanketed  form  of  Gabriel.  And  hoarsely 
he  cried  out : 

"God  forbid,  Don  Jaime !  Wait — for  the  love  of 
Our  Lady  of  Pity,  wait!  You  are  a  physician,  and 
we  are  sick  here.  We  are  sick  with  the  dread  chol- 
era, sick  unto  death.  Your  first  duty  is  to  us.  You 
must  help  us.  We  need  you,  urgently,  woefully — " 

Again  everything  was  happening  with  breathless 
velocity,  in  a  rush,  in  hardly  an  appreciable  flicker 
of  time.  Quesada's  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream : 

"Turn  your  eyes  upon  this  dying  boy,  Torre- 
blanca  y  Moncada!  Look  at  the  glassy  eyes,  the 
deep  eye  pits!  Look  at  the  cheek  bones  bursting 
through  the  paper-dry  skin!  Have  pity  on  him, 
Don  Jaime.  Eleven  years  old,  innocent  as  a  babe 
at  the  breast,  and  yet  wrinkled  and  wan  and  all 
crumpled  in  a  heap  like  a  disease-riddled  old  man! 

"Ah,  Blood  of  Christ,  Don  Jaime,  you  are  no 
Barbary  savage  to  turn  away  from  the  outreaching 
hands  of  a  dying  child!  You  are  a  priest  of  the 
body,  a  servant  of  mankind !  Your  first  duty  is  to 
this  mortally  sick  child,  to  all  the  mortally  sick  in 
this  village.  After  that,  if  vou  must,  you  may 
kill!" 

Quesada  trembled  violently  with  the  ardor  and 
hunger  of  his  entreaty.  The  dark-eyed,  pasty- 
faced  Gabriel  shook  in  his  uplifted  arms  like  a 


270  THE  WOLF-CUB 

poor  played-out  doll  of  rags.  An  end  of  the 
blanket  slipped  from  about  the  boy's  shoulder, 
dragged  free  from  him,  fell  in  a  heap  upon  the 
rock.  Aloft  to  the  doctor,  Quesada  held  the  little 
fellow  stark  naked  in  the  full  light  of  day! 

Quesada  fell  to  his  knees,  clawed  frantically  for 
the  blanket.  The  child  lifted  slow  deep-sunken  eyes 
to  the  stony  eyes  of  the  grandee,  as  if  dimly  won- 
dering what  it  was  all  about. 

Quesada  raised  one  end  of  the  blanket  to  en- 
wrap the  boy,  then  suddenly  hesitated.  He  had  ap- 
pealed to  the  honor  of  the  physician.  Well  he 
knew  how  dear  was  that  professional  honor  to  Don 
Jaime ! 

Don  Jaime  was  the  sort  of  physician  who  looks 
upon  his  business  of  serving  the  ailing  as  a  sacred 
commission  from  on  high.  He  was  like  one  who 
had  taken  Holy  Orders  with  his  doctor's  degree. 
No  Jesuit  was  more  slave  to  his  oaths;  no  Jesuit 
worked  with  more  zeal  for  God  and  the  Society 
than  did  Don  Jaime  for  Humanity  and  Science. 

Quesada  thought,  now,  to  essay  farther.  With 
the  little  fellow  standing  upon  his  own  reedlike  legs 
and  clinging  desperately  to  him,  the  bandolero  lifted 
his  gaunt  face  to  the  granite  face  of  the  hidalgo. 
In  a  low  patient  voice,  he  said : 

"Would  you  let  this  poor  child  endure  all  the 
agonies  of  purgatory  and  wretchedly  die,  while  you 
carry  out  your  cruel  scheme  of  vengeance?  Look 
at  him,  Don  Jaime !  Give  heed  to  the  legs  that  are 
like  walking-sticks,  the  poor  thin  wrists,  the  bony 
little  neck,  the  body  limp  as  a  soaking  dish  towel ! 

"Have  pity  on  him,  Don  Jaime — you  who  know 


THE  WOLF-CUB  271 

what  it  is  to  suffer!  The  Senor  Don  Dios  has 
been  far  more  cruel  to  him  than  ever  He  has  been 
to  you!  Not  a  month  gone,  He  took  the  child's 
widowed  mother  from  him ;  she  was  one  of  the  first 
to  be  claimed  by  the  plague.  Now  the  poor  baby 
is  all  alone  in  the  world !  " 

Quesada  swathed  the  boy  in  the  blanket.  Cra- 
dling him  tenderly  in  his  arms,  he  got  quietly  to  his 
feet.  He  waited. 

Don  Jaime  hesitated.  The  horse-pistol  shook 
violently  in  his  hand.  His  agate  eyes  softened. 

Then,  all  at  once,  an  appalling  change  swept  over 
Don  Jaime.  Deep  in  the  crypts  and  catacombs  of 
his  brain,  old  rankling  memories  stirred — old  pain- 
ful and  dolorous  memories  got  up,  and  walked 
about,  and  paraded  back  and  forth  in  somber  pro- 
cession. He  could  have  screamed,  so  tortured  was 
he  that  moment! 

Why  should  he,  the  grievously  outraged  one, 
show  pity?  Why  should  he  turn  aside  from  his 
scheme  of  vengeance  to  succor  this  dying  child,  these 
wretched  people?  Once  before  had  he  been  robbed 
when  he  sought  revenge  for  a  mortal  wrong.  This 
jade's  mother  had  run  off  with  a  gypsy  picador. 
And  though  the  hand  of  God  had  intervened  in  that 
elopement  as  a  sublime  instrument  of  vengeance, 
always  had  he  regretted,  through  the  dreary  and 
bitter  years,  that  his  own  hand  had  not  slain  the 
mother  of  Felicidad. 

Not  another  time  would  he  suffer  himself  to  be 
turned  aside.  He  was  like  that  awful  Jehovah  of 
the  Jews!  He  would  be  revenged  up  to  the  hilt, 
paid  back  in  full! 


272  THE  WOLF-CUB 

He  tore  his  eyes  from  the  piteous  face  of  the  boy 
Gabriel.  He  freshened  his  grip  on  the  horse-pistol, 
lifted  it  up.  Slowly  over  the  level  of  it  he  eyed 
the  waiting  girl. 

Rose  suddenly  a  shout  from  Quesada: 

"Take  the  boy  away,  Alfonso  Robledo!  He  is 
only  a  peasant's  sniveling  cub,  a  mountaineer's  or- 
phan brat!  What  cares  the  grandee  of  Spain  for 
our  little  Gabriel?  Take  him  away;  the  hidalgo 
Don  Jaime  will  have  none  of  him!  Let  him  die!  " 

Robledo  tottered  forward.  He  took  the  blan- 
keted child  in  his  arms.  Turning  about,  slowly 
back  toward  the  hospital  he  made. 

Quesada  lifted  his  haggard  face.  With  a  con- 
tempt biting  and  goading  in  its  virulence,  he  cried : 

"Proceed,  proud  Torreblanca  y  Moncada!  You 
have  your  high  knightly  honor  to  defend,  your  name 
and  blood  to  purge !  Shoot !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Now  it  may  have  been  because  of  the  miraculous 
interposition  of  the  Espiritu  Santo,  or  it  may  have 
been  by  reason  of  the  sudden  and  brutal  exposure; 
but  all  at  once,  as  he  was  borne  away  in  the  arms 
of  Robledo,  the  boy  Gabriel  took  an  abrupt  turn 
for  the  worse — a  cruel  cramping  fit  seized  him  in 
its  formidable  vise ! 

Violent  spasms  shook  and  threw  him  about  like 
a  tossed  beanbag;  his  teeth  clenched  together  with 
the  paralysis  of  lockjaw;  his  legs  and  arms  knotted 
up  and  flung  out  again  as  if  they  would  tear  them- 
selves apart  from  his  body.  All  in  a  trice,  and  ere 
Robledo  could  prevent,  he  writhed  out  of  the  bull- 
fighter's grasp  and  fell  rolling  and  squirming  upon 
the  ground,  his  fingers  clawing  at  the  yellow  earth. 

Blind  to  everything  else,  screaming  his  fear  and 
horror,  Quesada  leaped  toward  him.  But  some  one 
bulked  before  the  bandolero,  blocked  his  way,  dashed 
head-bent  for  the  boy's  side. 

That  some  one  held  in  his  hand  an  instrument  of 
gleaming  silver,  needle-sharp  at  one  end.  He 
dropped  to  his  knees  beside  the  pitifully  qontorted 
Gabriel.  He  shoved  the  needle  point  into  the  boy's 
knotted  arm  above  the  wrist;  gave  it  a  quick  jab. 
That  some  one  was  the  hidalgo  doctor,  Don  Jaime ! 

Once  the  hypodermic  injection  acted  on  the  spinal 
cord  and  the  medulla  oblongata,  the  spasms  would 


274  THE  WOLF-CUB 

be  checked,  quieted,  allayed.  But  there  must  be 
a  circulation  of  blood.  Too  slow,  altogether  too 
slow,  was  the  blood  trickling  through  the  lad's 
veins.  He  was  sinking  fast. 

With  swift  harsh  hands,  Don  Jaime  rubbed  des- 
perately the  boy's  arms,  legs  and  spine.  But 
Gabriel's  pulse  was  dying;  rapidly  his  skin  was 
turning  to  a  blue  tinge;  like  dew  chilling  to  frost, 
the  surface  of  his  body  was  freezing  icily.  The 
injection  of  morphia  failed  to  impact  on  the  nerve 
centers.  It  was  without  effect. 

On  a  sudden  the  little  fellow  kicked  out,  then 
lay  rigid  as  one  who  stiffens  in  the  petrifying  clutch 
of  death.  All  the  breath  had  fled  his  nostrils.  He 
was  in  the  asphyxial  stage  of  the  cholera. 

Don  Jaime,  kneeling  beside  the  collapsed  form, 
tore  with  his  harsh  hands  at  jaw  and  brow  to  force 
open  the  vised  mouth.  Between  the  boy's  clench- 
ing teeth,  he  wedged  the  blunt  end  of  the  silver 
syringe.  Then  he  strove  to  force  air  into  the 
sunken  empty  lungs.  He  strove  brusquely  yet  care- 
fully, as  one  strives  over  a  drowning  man.  He 
lifted  the  reedlike  arms  above  the  boy's  head,  then 
back  to  his  sides  and  up  again. 

He  worked  feverishly,  he  worked  heroically.  He 
reached  for  the  black  leather  box  he  had  thrown 
behind  him.  The  broken  straps  on  that  box  showed 
where  it  had  been  torn  with  sudden  violence  from 
the  cantle  of  his  saddle. 

Quesada  hastened  to  aid  his  groping  hand.  He 
picked  up  the  box  and  held  it  open. 

"Ammonia !  "  snapped  the  doctor.  "Hold  it  to 
his  nose ! " 


THE  WOLF-CUB  275 

Quesada  withdrew  from  the  box  a  labeled  blue 
bottle.  As  Don  Jaime  worked  the  puny  arms  up 
and  down  with  a  certain  circumspect  precision, 
Quesada  held  the  pungent  salts  beneath  the  slightly 
fluttering  nostrils. 

"Build  a  fire!  Heat  water!"  Don  Jaime  ex- 
ploded, never  ceasing  his  labors.  "Quick!  We 
must  give  the  boy  a  hot  bath  to  circulate  the  blood 
and  save  him  from  dying !  " 

"We  have  a  fire  going  night  and  day,"  returned 
Quesada.  "We  have  only  to  remove  the  heated 
stones  to  the  bathing  pool." 

"Where  is  it,  this  pool  ?     Lead  the  way !  " 

The  haughty  doctor  leaped  afoot.  He  had  no 
thought  but  for  the  urgent  business  at  hand.  He 
was  a  thrall  to  grim  and  importunate  necessity. 
Even  as  his  personal  honor  was  to  him  more  preci- 
ous than  life,  so  was  his  physician's  honor  a  cove- 
nant with  Jehovah,  tyrannical  and  imperious  to 
command  him. 

Quesada,  flinging  his  rickety  legs  wide  apart,  went 
swaying  and  floundering  up  the  uneven  street.  Don 
Jaime  followed  after  the  bandolero,  the  little  Ga- 
briel in  his  own  hidalgo  arms. 

The  heat  of  the  bath  circulated  the  lad's  blood. 
By  slow  degrees,  he  drew  out  of  the  chill  collapse. 
Don  Jaime  wrapped  him  snug  in  a  blanket.  Once 
again,  in  his  own  hidalgo  arms,  the  grandee  doctor 
carried  the  boy  back  to  the  sick  bay. 

As  he  entered  that  fetid  moaning  place,  a  kind  of 
shiver  trembled  through  Don  Jaime.  He  made 
along  the  runway  between  the  platforms  of  toss- 
ing, groaning,  and  emaciated  sick,  his  gray  eyes 


276  THE  WOLF-CUB 

darting  from  side  to  side.  At  the  upper  end  of 
the  chapel,  near  the  dingy  altar,  he  laid  the  boy 
down. 

What  of  the  hot  bath  and  resultant  circulation 
of  blood,  the  injection  of  morphia  was  now  at  last 
achieving  its  purpose.  No  sooner  had  the  poor 
lad  touched  the  pine  slabs  than  he  passed  blissfully 
into  the  dwelling  place  of  sleep. 

Don  Jaime  looked  down  the  two  platforms  of 
blanketed  sick.  Slowly  and  gloomily  he  shook  his 
white  head.  He  turned  to  Quesada  following  dog- 
like  after  him.  His  narrow  face  was  a  cinder- 
gray. 

"You  have  spoken  aright,  son  of  a  mangy  she- 
wolf,"  he  said.  "I  came  nigh  to  forgetting  my 
duty.  I  am  a  priest  of  the  body.  My  first  duty  is 
to  the  suffering  and  dying  here!  After  that — " 

He  paused  ominously.  He  looked  about  as  if  in 
search  of  something.  Of  a  sudden  his  roving  eyes 
became  focused,  riveted;  they  flashed  like  cressets 
of  fire.  Through  the  hospital  doorway,  out  into 
the  cold  sunlight  he  gazed. 

He  saw  Felicidad  down  the  village  street.  From 
the  spell  of  terror  and  despair  she  was  only  then 
recovering.  She  glanced  quickly  about  her.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  been  away  on  a  long  journey  and 
was  astounded  now  to  find  everything  as  it  had 
been  before.  She  shuddered  visibly  like  one  start- 
ing to  life  who  had  been  dead  for  intolerable  mo- 
ments. 

Lip  quivering  but  head  held  with  a  quiet  proud 
demeanor,  she  turned  toward  the  cabana  wherein 
the  American  lay.  As  she  entered  the  low  doorway 


THE  WOLF-CUB  277 

Jacques  Ferou,  lurking  in  the  dark,  sidled  past  her 
and  out. 

The  Frenchman's  whole  malignant  soul  was 
bunched  and  crouched  in  his  eyes.  He  threw  after 
the  golden  form  of  the  girl  a  look  searing  and 
blasting.  It  was  as  if,  now  that  the  vengeance  of 
the  hidalgo  had  failed  him,  he  would  kill  the  girl 
himself  with  that  one  glare  from  his  slaty  eyes. 

Don  Jaime's  lips  clicked  together.  Looking 
piercingly  through  the  doorway,  his  agate  eyes 
lunged  like  sharp  knives  at  the  venomous  French- 
man and  the  white  trembling  girl.  In  a  voice  chill 
as  a  glacial  wind,  he  spoke. 

"After  I  have  fulfilled  here  my  duty  to  the  sick," 
he  said — "after  that,  by  the  Life,  I  slay!  " 

He  would  say  no  more.  His  lips  tightened  into 
a  line  thin  and  grim  as  if  chiseled  in  stone. 

He  went  down  and  up  the  line  of  platforms,  dos- 
ing each  sufferer  in  turn.  To  some  he  gave  stim- 
ulants and  astringents ;  to  those  in  the  more  severe 
stages  of  the  disease,  he  doled  out  opiates. 

He  went  from  cabana  to  choza  outside,  bringing 
brandy  and  nutritive  food  to  the  convalescing.  He 
was  leaving  the  choza  of  one  villager  when  Quesada, 
dogging  his  steps,  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"You  have  seen,  senor  don  hidalgo?"  asked  the 
bandolero.  "The  Frenchman  Ferou  is  up  here, 
also." 

"I  know,"  nodded  Don  Jaime  austerely.  "He  is 
wherever  trouble  is.  He  is  the  scum  that  gathers 
where  things  are  filthy,  an  abomination  to  be 
squashed  under  the  heel !  Za  !  "  he  ended,  with  pro- 
found loathing.  "He  is  a  human  leech !  " 


278  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Quickly  then,  as  they  approached  the  next 
cabana,  he  related  with  characteristic  frankness  and 
bitter  contempt,  all  he  had  seen  and  heard  that 
morning  in  the  gorge  at  the  foot  of  the  goat  path. 

Quesada  showed  little  surprise.  What  could  one 
expect  from  the  French  vulture! 

But  what  did  surprise  him  not  a  little  was  to  find, 
upon  putting  his  hand  inside  his  sheepskin  zamarra, 
that  the  small  mahogany-colored  leather  purse  of 
the  doctor  was  no  longer  there.  Carajo!  what  had 
become  of  the  purse  and  money  of  Don  Jaime? 

"It  is  that  Frenchman !  "  he  quickly  surmised. 
"Don  Jaime,  he  has  stolen  your  money  for  a  sec- 
ond time !  I  took  the  purse  from  him  in  that  affair 
of  the  Seville-to-Madrid ;  I  was  holding  all  those 
five  thousand  peseta  bills  for  you,  my  senor  doctor ; 
but  while  I  was  dowrn  sick  and  knew  nothing,  the 
French  ferret  must  have  gone  through  my  pockets !  " 

Don  Jaime  only  grunted. 

They  entered  the  obscurity  of  the  next  cabana. 
Within,  Felicidad  was  sitting  at  the  bedside  of  the 
convalescing  American,  explaining  all  that  had  oc- 
curred. At  their  appearance,  she  abruptly  quieted. 

Pointing  to  the  American  upon  the  leaf -stuffed 
couch,  Quesada  explained  in  a  few  sketchy  sen- 
tences just  who  Carson  was  and  all  he  had  done. 
Then  the  bandolero  told  how  Ferou  had  charged 
Carson  for  the  medicines  so  vital  to  his  recovery  and 
even  for  the  bare  necessities  of  life. 

"The  Frenchman  is  a  plunderer,  an  extortioner, 
Don  Jaime.  He  charged  prices,  exorbitant  prices. 
He  robbed  this  man  of  all  his  ready  money.  Senor 
Don  Dios,  it  was  outrageous,  detestable!  There 


THE  WOLF-CUB  279 

was  no  need  of  prices;  the  man  was  down  on  his 
back,  helpless,  well-nigh  dead;  there  was  no  need 
of  prices  of  any  kind.  But  what  could  we  do? 
In  all  the  barrio,  Ferou  was  the  only  one  armed." 

The  hidalgo  doctor  lifted  Carson's  heavy  hand 
to  feel  his  pulse.  He  said  no  word.  He  never 
once  looked  toward  Felicidad  who  had  arisen  to 
her  feet  and  stepped  to  one  side. 

Yet  Quesada  knew.  In  this  expose  of  Ferou's 
execrable  character,  it  was  plain  by  comparison  that 
the  Frenchman  had  artfully  cajoled  Felicidad  and 
then  used  her  as  a  cat's-paw  to  pluck  golden  chest- 
nuts out  of  the  fire.  The  girl  had  been  duped  and 
ensnared  by  the  creature's  wiles.  Even  to  the 
adamantine  mind  of  the  senor  doctor,  the  blow  and 
blot  of  his  daughter's  conduct  must  inevitably  pall 
before  the  odiousness  of  the  Frenchman's  villainy. 

But  again  Don  Jaime  said  no  word.  He  only 
prescribed  a  certain  diet  for  Carson.  Without  so 
much  as  a  softening  glance  toward  the  pale  and 
fearful  girl,  he  marched  out  of  the  cabana,  his 
boots  clamping  down  in  firm  measured  strides. 

They  returned  to  the  hospital  only  to  find  Gabriel 
suffering,  once  more,  in  the  grip  of  the  plague.  To 
ease  the  poor  lad's  griping  pangs  and  still  the  heart- 
tearing  cries  for  his  dead  mother,  the  senor  doctor 
dropped  a  few  beads  of  chloroform  down  his  throat. 

"Do  not  despair,  my  precious  little  man !  "  en- 
couraged Morales,  in  a  husky  voice,  from  his  place 
down  the  platform.  "Have  a  high  fearless  heart, 
and  the  great  Torreblanca  will  yet  pull  you 
through." 

With  an  utterness  of  gratitude  at  having  won 


280  THE  WOLF-CUB 

such  inspiriting  words  from  the  matador  whom  he 
so  venerated,  the  boy  thanked  Morales  with  black 
eyes  that  were  smoldering  great  coals  in  their  deep 
pits. 

Don  Jaime  turned  to  Quesada.  Morales  had 
tossed  off  the  upper  end  of  his  blanket  and  the 
hidalgo  had  suddenly  noticed  the  gold-braided  green 
jacket  about  the  matador's  torso.  With  that  char- 
acteristic frankness  of  his  which  so  often  sounded 
brutal  and  coarse,  he  queried: 

"Who  is  this  hombre  in  gold-tinsel  and  green  that 
has  such  faith  in  the  ability  and  concoctions  of 
Torreblanca  y  Moncada  ?  " 

"Que,  que !  "  exclaimed  the  bandolero,  distinctly 
surprised.  "What,  what!  Does  not  the  senor 
doctor  know  ?  " 

But  the  doctor  did  not  even  remember  having 
seen  the  man  in  the  excitement  of  his  first  rounds. 

"That  is  Morales,  the  bravest  espada  in  all  the 
Spains !  " 

"Morales?  Manuel  Morales,  that  great  murderer 
of  bulls,  that  supremely  dexterous  one  with  the 
sword  ?  And  here !  " 

Don  Jaime  went  at  once  to  the  side  of  the  wanly 
smiling  matador. 

"My  Manuel  Morales,"  he  said  with  earnestness, 
"all  Spain  mourns  for  its  lost  pastime  while  you 
lie  helpless  here.  We  must  quickly  get  you  well. 
But  valgame  Dios!  no  poor  few  remedies  of  mine 
will  work  the  miracle  half  so  speedily  as  that  own 
brave  golden  Moorish  heart  of  you !  " 

Interposed  Quesada  quietly : 

"Jacques  Ferou  robbed  our  Manuel,  too.     And 


THE  WOLF-CUB  281 

you  know  the  great  Morales,  Don  Jaime!  He 
would  rather  starve  than  play  the  mouse  to  this 
hawk.  Yet  he  had  to  pay ! 

"Ah,  Torreblanca  y  Moncada,"  he  added  with 
rising  vehemence,  "this  hombre  Ferou,  is  a  human 
bloodsucker,  as  you  say !  He  is  a  greedy,  foul  buz- 
zard!" 

Don  Jaime  snapped  erect.  A  portentous  gleam 
was  in  his  stony  eyes. 

"He  robbed  Manuel  Morales,  too !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"That's  enough;  not  another  word!  We  will  give 
the  creature  short  shrift !  Carajo !  I  have  a  plan." 

Quesada  and  Morales  looked  about  to  see  that  no 
henchman  of  Ferou  had  chanced  to  overhear.  The 
doctor  understood  their  wary  glances.  He  lowered 
his  voice. 

"All  the  short  jump  up  the  goat  path,"  he  said 
in  even  tones,  "ever  since  this  morning  when  I 
heard  the  French  ringworm's  conversation  in  the 
gorge,  I  have  been  formulating  this  plan.  And  it 
is  a  good  plan;  it  will  attain  many  ends  at  the  one 
time.  It  will  blight  the  treacherous  plot  of  Ferou, 
save  you  from  the  Guardia  Civil,  Quesada,  and  in 
the  same  breath  win  back  for  me  my  stolen  money ! 
Ah,  it  is  almost  divine  in  its  justice!  Mediante 
Dios — God  willing,  I  will  use  it  as  another  instru- 
ment of  my  vengeance !  " 

Quesada  gasped. 

"Yon  mean  to  kill  the  French  leech?  But  my 
senor  doctor,  in  the  whole  pueblo,  Jacques  Ferou  is 
the  only  man  armed!  No  lo  quiera  Dios,  Don 
Jaime!  God  forbid,  yet  I  fear  he  will  slay  you 
first!" 


282  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"I  have  a  horse-pistol,"  said  the  physician  with 
grave  significance.  "Yet  I  do  not  mean  to  sully 
these  hidalgo  hands  of  mine  by  killing  him  my- 
self. Seguramente,  no!  He  shall  die,  but  from 
no  bullet  of  mine!  " 

He  shook  his  white  head  slowly  as  if  fixing  some- 
thing definite  in  his  mind. 

"To-morrow  noon,"  he  added  imperiously. 
"To-morrow  noon,  he  shall  die !  " 

It  was  the  selfsame  hour  Ferou  himself  had 
bargained  with  the  Guardias  Civiles  for  the  killing 
of  Quesada! 

Don  Jaime  would  say  no  more.  He  was  as  ar- 
rogantly enigmatic  as  the  very  God  Himself! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

DON  JAIME  worked  that  day.  That  night  he 
slaved.  About  eventide  Alfonso  Robledo,  the 
banderillero  who  so  bravely  had  seconded  Quesada 
that  morning,  suffered  all  at  once  a  severe  relapse. 
Perhaps  it  came  from  the  overheating  excitement 
of  that  crucial  time  upon  the  rock;  perhaps  the 
abrupt  exposure  in  that  intrepid  try  to  avert  Felici- 
dad's  cruel  and  barbarous  fate,  had  brought  it  on; 
at  any  rate  and  all  on  a  sudden,  his  weakened  body 
began  writhing  in  an  agony  of  cramps. 

There  was  nothing  else  for  it.  The  hidalgo 
doctor  gave  the  bullfighter  a  hypodermic  injection 
of  morphia.  The  paroxysms  lessened,  altogether 
ceased.  The  eyelids  of  the  banderillero  rolled  down 
heavily,  and  he  slumped  into  a  deep  stertorous  sleep. 

That  reawakened  in  Don  Jaime  the  Fear.  He 
made  once  more  a  round  of  the  hospital.  He  went 
from  choza  to  cabana  outside,  seeking  new  cases. 
Where  a  man  could  not  sleep  or  a  woman  persisted 
in  moaning,  he  administered  narcotics. 

When  morning  dawned  through  wisps  of  rain, 
the  long  night  of  taxing  and  intolerable  work  showed 
plainly  in  the  doctor.  His  narrow  face  looked  thin 
and  long  as  a  ferule;  the  cheek  bones  were  high, 
the  aquiline  nose  never  more  imperious.  What 
with  all  the  coffee  he  had  drunk  like  a  good  Moor, 
to  accelerate  the  action  of  his  brain  and  steady  the 


284  THE  WOLF-CUB 

movement  of  his  hand,  his  skin  seemed  tinged  to  a 
deeper  swarth. 

Quesada  awoke  early  and  with  a  renewed  strength. 
He  brewed  for  the  grandee  another  pot  of  fresh 
aromatic  coffee. 

Don  Jaime  had  gone  down  behind  the  cabanas 
to  release  his  hobbled  old  skate  of  a  horse  and  lead 
him  to  water.  When  he  returned,  his  huge  horse- 
pistol  was  strapped  to  his  waist. 

He  quaffed  two  cups  of  the  coffee  in  quick  suc- 
cession. He  stained,  with  marked  and  aloof  in- 
difference, his  usually  immaculate  white  point  of  a 
beard.  Then,  without  a  word,  with  feruled  face 
determined  and  grim,  he  returned  into  the  hospital 
to  his  urgent  ministry. 

It  was  coming  noon.  Quesada  was  sunning  him- 
self before  the  hospital,  according  to  his  daily  wont, 
when  Ferou  appeared  around  one  mud  wall  with  the 
suddenness  of  a  jack-in-the-box. 

In  his  right  hand  the  Frenchman  showed  a  re- 
volver. He  pointed  the  revolver  at  Quesada. 
With  a  politeness  that  seemed  more  deadly  than  the 
gleam  of  the  gun,  he  said : 

"You  will  arise,  Senor  Don  Jacinto.  You  will  do 
all  that  which  I  tell  you  to  do.  Aupa !  " 

The  chair,  tilted  against  the  mud  wall,  banged 
down  upon  its  forlegs.  Quesada  got  to  his  feet. 

"March  forward  past  me.  Now  stop.  It  is 
good,  my  brave  bandolero.  Now,  with  me  behind 
you,  march  toward  that  great  rock  on  the  brink  of 
the  pueblo !  " 

Everything  was  happening  as  the  doctor  had  fore- 
told. The  tall  Frenchman  nudged  Quesada  with 


THE  WOLF-CUB  285 

the  muzzle  of  the  revolver  in  the  small  of  his  back. 
They  started  on.  And  then,  all  at  once,  from  the 
gloom  of  the  chapel  behind  them,  came  the  galvanic 
voice  of  the  hidalgo : 

"Alto !     Drop  that  gun,  you  French  leech !  " 

Quesada  did  not  dare  turn  round.  But  Ferou, 
his  blond  lids  fluttering  with  stupendous  surprise, 
gave  a  quick  glance  back  over  his  shoulder.  He 
saw  the  hidalgo  doctor  standing  in  the  low  door- 
way, the  huge  horse-pistol  leveled  in  one  harsh  fist, 
his  eyes  gleaming  like  quartz  in  the  sun. 

The  Frenchman  gave  a  precipitant  leap  to  one 
side.  He  was  quick  as  an  ape.  He  slewed  round, 
his  revolver  lifted. 

An  explosion  burst  from  the  pistol  of  the  doc- 
tor. Ferou's  revolver  dropped  to  the  mud.  He 
clutched  his  right  wrist.  It  was  trickling  blood  from 
where  a  bullet  had  creased  the  flesh  like  a  branding 
wire. 

"Quesada!  "  cracked  the  thin  lips  of  Don  Jaime. 
"Pick  up  that  revolver.  You,  Ferou,  march  in 
here ! "  He  menaced  the  Frenchman  with  that 
huge  gun  which  was  loaded  and  ready  for  more 
quick  work. 

Quesada  turned  round,  thereat,  and  lifted  from 
the  mud  the  Frenchman's  revolver.  He  shook  off 
the  clinging  silt  and  pointed  it  at  Ferou.  His  ashy 
face  working  like  a  monkey's  with  abrupt  and 
nervous  apprehension,  the  Frenchman  marched  into 
the  hospital. 

Once  inside,  in  the  runway  between  the  blanketed 
figures  of  plague  sufferers,  Don  Jaime  snapped  out 
a  terse  and  inexplicable  command.  Ferou  thought 


286  THE  WOLF-CUB 

himself  the  only  one  that  understood  its  purpose. 
A  shuddering  fit  seized  him.  He  knew  that,  in  the 
receptacles  beneath  his  armpits,  were  concealed  the 
small  mahogany-colored  leather  purse  he  had  taken 
from  Quesada  and  the  peseta  bills  he  had  pitilessly 
mulcted  out  of  Carson  and  Morales.  He  thought 
that  the  doctor  was  searching  for  them. 

"Undress !  "  repeated  the  hidalgo. 

The  Frenchman's  slate-colored  eyes  fluttered 
about.  He  saw  Quesada  threatening  him  with  his 
own  revolver.  There  was  no  help  for  it.  With 
fingers  suddenly  thick  and  clumsy  with  nervousness, 
he  began  to  unbutton  his  gray  tweeds. 

"And  you,  too,  Quesada ! "  ended  the  doctor. 
"Give  the  Frenchman's  revolver  into  the  keeping  of 
Morales,  and  undress,  too !  " 

Quesada  did  not  at  all  understand.  He  saw 
Morales  sitting  up,  as  if  prepared  to  lend  aid,  a 
pillow  bolstering  his  back.  He  passed  the  French- 
man's revolver  into  the  hands  of  the  matador. 
Then  bewildered  but  blindly  obedient,  he  began  to 
doff  his  alpagartas,  rough  corduroys,  and  sheepskin 
zamarra. 

The  Frenchman  stood  forth  in  his  nether  gar- 
ments, a  tall,  quaking  and  almost  ludicrous  figure. 
He  watched  Quesada,  a  nameless  fear  sharpening 
his  slate-colored  eyes. 

"Hand  over  the  money,  Senor  Ferou,"  said  Don 
Jaime  with  frosty  politeness;  then  explosively: 
"All  of  it!  Pronto!" 

The  eyes  of  the  Frenchman  flashed  like  the  eyes 
of  a  ferocious  animal  about  to  be  robbed  of  its 
meat.  But  quickly  he  got  himself  in  hand;  the  bale- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  287 

ful  gleam  dulled.  He  shot  a  questioning  glance  to- 
ward the  disrobing  bandolero.  Perhaps  this  thing 
he  sensed  and  dreaded  was  only  a  grisly  figment  of 
his  imagination.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  doctor  only 
wanted  the  money.  It  were  wise  to  obey. 

With  an  astonishing  readiness,  he  produced,  from 
the  receptacles  cunningly  prepared  beneath  his  arm- 
pits, the  purse  of  the  doctor  and  the  bills  belonging 
to  Morales  and  Carson. 

Don  Jaime  did  not  wait  to  open  the  purse  and 
inspect  its  contents.  He  shoved  the  wallet  into  his 
pocket.  He  cast  the  roll  of  loose  bills  upon  the 
platform  beside  Morales. 

"They  belong  to  you  and  the  American.  You 
can  take  what  is  due  you  and  return  the  others  to 
Senor  Carson.  But  hola!  let  the  division  go  till 
later!" 

He  kicked  the  gray  tweeds  of  Ferou  over  the 
hard-tamped  earth  floor  toward  Quesada. 

"Put  them  on,"  he  commanded  bluntly. 

The  bandolero  nodded,  though  as  yet  he  did  not 
comprehend  the  whyfore  of  it  all.  With  dispatch, 
he  commenced  to  garb  himself  in  the  tweeds  of  the 
Frenchman  which,  despite  the  hard  usage  of  the 
last  few  weeks,  still  showed  the  ineradicable  signs 
of  good  material. 

"You,  Ferou !  "  the  doctor  bit  out.  "You  don  the 
clothes  of  Quesada !  " 

The  growing  nameless  fear  in  Ferou's  brain 
bourgeoned,  at  that  command,  into  noisome  bloom. 
His  jaw  slacked  and  began  an  incontrollable  quiv- 
ering. His  eyes  glittered  in  a  pasty  sweating  face. 

"Mais  non,  mais  non ! "  he  cried,  lapsing  in  his 


288  THE  WOLF-CUB 

extremity  into  his  native  tongue.  "Not  that, 
monsieur !  You  cannot  demand  that !  The  clothes, 
they  are  dirty,  foul !  " 

It  was  only  the  subterfuge  of  a  time  of  dire  peril. 
His  eyes  darted  wildly  about.  They  sought  Mo- 
rales. Morales  had  been  very  tender  with  the  sick. 
Perhaps — 

But  Morales  was  leveling  his  own  revolver  at 
him  with  a  hand  only  a  trifle  less  steady  than  that 
of  the  doctor.  His  face,  parchment-dry  and  sunken 
of  flesh  from  the  ravages  of  disease,  was  forbidding 
with  grim  determination. 

"Put  them  on !  "  persisted  Don  Jaime. 

Solemnly  then  and  very  laboriously,  with  jaw  still 
quivering  and  shaking  hands,  Ferou  dressed  in  the 
sheepskin  zamarra,  rough  corduroys,  and  alpagar- 
tas  of  the  bandolero.  Don  Jaime  himself  clapped 
upon  Ferou's  blond  head  the  high-pointed  hat  of 
Quesada. 

"Now,  march !  "  he  exploded.  "March  toward 
that  great  rock  on  the  brink  of  the  village !  " 

All  the  Frenchman's  dismal  fears  became  quick 
and  instant.  He  was  sure  now!  The  nostrils  of 
his  predatory  nose  twitching  and  working,  his  whole 
pasty  face  working  and  grimacing,  with  unrestrain- 
able  fear,  like  a  horrible  mask  of  rubber,  he  groveled 
on  his  knees  and  held  out  his  two  arms  to  the  doctor 
in  abject  supplication. 

"Mercy,  Don  Jaime!  Mon  Dieu,  you  would  not 
have  me  shot  like  a  dog !  " 

"March !  "  the  hidalgo  insisted.  His  voice  rang 
with  metallic  timbre;  his  gray  eyes  flashed  as  if 
they  were  bits  of  flint  upon  which  steel  had  struck. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  289 

He  shoved  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol  against  the 
Frenchman's  chest. 

Ferou  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  backed  out  the 
doorway.  The  doctor  followed  him  step  by  step. 
Quesada,  a  great  light  coruscating  in  his  brain,  re- 
covered the  revolver  from  the  bedridden  Morales 
and  bounded  out  in  the  wake  of  the  two. 

Thus,  the  Frenchman  retreating  before  the  im- 
portunate muzzle,  of  the  senor  doctor's  pistol,  Ques- 
ada following  after,  they  went  down  the  muddy 
street  toward  that  great  rock  which  glared,  in  the 
noontide  sunlight,  on  the  brink  of  the  village. 

Once  the  Frenchman  paused.  Imploringly,  he 
lifted  his  still  bleeding  right  hand. 

"Monsenor!  "  he  cried.  "For  the  love  of  Christ, 
monsenor — " 

Came  the  sharp  click  of  a  pistol  being  cocked. 
Then,  like  a  sharper  echo  of  it,  the  command  of  the 
doctor.  x 

"March!" 

A  mad  notion  to  turn  and  run  for  it  seized  Ferou. 
But  no!  They  would  shoot  him  down  ere  he  could 
take  ten  steps.  They  were  too  close. 

The  police,  on  the  other  hand,  would  be  far  be- 
low, in  the  gorge.  Maybe  their  carbines  would 
miss.  There  was  always  hope. 

He  backed  out  upon  the  hot  glaring  rock. 

Came  a  yell  from  the  hidalgo,  sounding  shrill 
and  bodiless  in  the  thin  air,  and  carrying  back  and 
far  away  in  ringing  echoes: 

"Hola,  mis  Guardias  Civiles !  Jacinto  Quesada — 
he  is  here !  " 

An  answering  shout  spiraled  up  from  the  deeps 


290  THE  WOLF-CUB 

of  the  gorge.  Then,  on  the  heels  of  it,  one  long 
slithering  shaft  of  sound.  The  crang  of  a  carbine! 
Ferou  threw  up  his  arms  and,  his  face  black  with 
congested  blood,  half  spilled  forward  as  if  he  had 
been  struck  by  a  blow  between  the  shoulders.  He 
swayed  back  and  forth  on  the  balls  of  his  feet, 
caught  himself,  hung  still  for  intolerable  moments. 
Then,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  a  man  killed  by  a 
bullet,  he  tottered  backward,  slipped  on  the  crum- 
bling lip  of  the  rock  and  went  over,  clutching  with 
white  clawing  hands  at  the  brink,  twisting,  turning, 
and  shrieking — shrieking  for  minutes  afterward, 
shrieking  hideously! 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

DOCTOR  TORREBLANCA  Y  MONCADA  strategically 
overcame  the  trouble  engendered  by  cremation.  He 
had  the  serranos  burn  whole  trees  and  from  the 
ashes,  by  percolation  through  water,  produce  a 
leaching  of  lye.  Then,  a  goodly  distance  from  the 
water  supply  coursing  through  the  old  Moorish 
flume,  on  the  lip  of  the  gorge  where  a  void  had  been 
left  by  the  dismantling  of  the  two  infected  cabanas, 
he  had  the  men  of  the  pueblo  dig  a  deep  pit. 
Therein  he  purposed  burying  the  dead  in  sheets  of 
the  burning  alkali. 

On  the  morning  following  that  on  which  poetic 
justice  had  come  to  Ferou,  he  approached  Quesada, 
who  was  superintending  the  work  of  digging  the 
pit.  Save  for  a  certain  wolfish  gauntness,  the  ban- 
dolero was  almost  himself. 

"Jacinto,"  he  said,  "do  you  feel  hardy  enough,  my 
haggard  one,  to  journey  down  these  hills  to  my  casa 
near  Granada  ?  " 

The  Moorish  oblong  eyes  of  the  bandolero  showed 
surprise  and  a  shade  of  fear. 

"I  am  easily  strong  enough  by  now,  Don  Jaime. 
But—" 

"Is  it  the  police  you  fear?  They  rode  away  im- 
mediately after  the  killing  of  Ferou." 

Quesada  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  frank  with  you,  my  hidalgo  doctor. 
Should  I  absent  myself  from  the  barrio,  I  would 


292  THE  WOLF-CUB 

fear  for  Felicidad  of  the  gold  hair  and  heart  of 
fire!" 

With  his  cold  gray  eyes,  the  grandee  looked  at 
Quesada  and  through  and  through  him.  As  if 
mouthing  some  religious  dogma,  he  returned  haugh- 
tily: 

"You  know,  son  of  a  mangy  she-wolf,  that  no 
man  can  halt  a  Torreblanca  y  Moncada  once  he  says, 
I  will!  Ea  pues!  It  is  thus  with  my  vengeance. 
The  ancient  name  of  my  house,  the  blood  of  my 
veins,  must  be  cleared  of  all  tainture!  Felicidad 
must  die !  " 

"God  preserve  you,  Don  Jaime!  You  are  still 
the  soul  of  granite,  unforgiving  and  unsparing  even 
though  your  stolen  money  is  all  returned  to  you 
now,  and  your  daughter's  disgrace  altogether  wiped 
out  by  the  death  of  the  French  poodle!  " 

The  hidalgo  laughed  harshly.  He  refused  in 
his  lordly  pride  to  argue.  Cleverly  he  countered: 

"And  you,  Jacintito;  you  are  still  the  Wolf -Cub, 
ever  leaping  to  the  jade's  defense  as  you  did  when 
you  were  only  a  bantling ! 

"But  it  is  not  because  I  wish  to  be  rid  of  you 
that  I  ask  you  to  journey,"  he  went  on.  "You 
have  reminded  me  that  I  am  a  priest  of  the  body. 
It  is  of  my  profession  I  speak.  I  need  medicines. 
The  supply  is  nearly  exhausted." 

"But  I  carted  up  such  a  lot,  fully  four  canvas 
packs !  " 

"I  know.  But  mi  gran  espada  Manuel  and  the 
Senor  Carson,  both  well-meaning  but  untutored, 
made  extravagant  inroads  on  the  treasures  you 
brought.  And  hearing  from  old  Tio  Pedro  that 


THE  WOLF-CUB  293 

you  had  stocked  yourself  so  well,  I  rode  extra  light 
to  make  speed." 

"Yet  things  are  going  better  now,"  objected  Ques- 
ada.  "There  are  fewer  deaths  and  more  recover- 
ies." 

"Thank  God  for  that!  But  one  can  never  tell. 
The  present  even  tone  of  the  weather  may  sud- 
denly change  and  cause  the  scourge  to  redouble  its 
havoc.  I  must  not  run  short." 

"That  is  true,"  nodded  Quesada.  Yet  it  was 
evident  that  he  still  hesitated  to  go  for  fear  of 
leaving  Felicidad  unassisted  and  helpless  before  the 
cold  implacable  wrath  of  her  father. 

Said  Don  Jaime,  commencing  to  offer  induce- 
ments, plainly  weakening  before  the  obstinacy  of 
the  bandolero : 

"If  you  will  go,  Jacinto,  you  may  take  my  horse. 
No  other  has  ridden  him  in  over  ten  years.  He 
will  carry  you  well,  though  only  at  a  snail's  pace." 

Quesada  realized  what  that  offer  meant. 

"I  will  take  the  horse,"  he  agreed.  "That  horse 
of  yours  shall  be  as  a  bond  given  in  hand  to  me,  Don 
Jaime,  that  you  will  remain  here  and  stay  your 
vengeance  until  I  return !  " 

"My  vengeance?  Well,  like  the  Judgment  Day 
of  Christ,  that  can  wait !  " 

"Is  it  a  promise?  " 

"It  is  a  promise !  " 

"Vaya,  Don  Jaime !  " 

"Con  Dios,  Jacintito !  " 

Garbed  in  the  once  elegant  clothes  of  the  dead 
Frenchman,  even  to  his  slouch  traveling  hat, 
Quesada  sat  deep  in  the  doctor's  saddle  and  care- 


294  THE  WOLF-CUB 

fully  guided  the  old  rawboned  nag  down  the  loops 
of  the  goat  path. 

He  kept  a  wary  eye  out  for  the  policemen.  The 
Guardias  Civiles  might  chance  to  be  lingering  on  in 
the  gorge.  But  the  trampled  space  about  the  alder 
tree  was  wholly  deserted ;  the  ashes  from  the  break- 
fast fire  of  the  day  before  were  being  rapidly  dis- 
sipated by  the  draughty  wind. 

He  pushed  on  down.  Crackling  over  the  fallen 
leaves  in  the  gorges,  clattering  along  the  stony  hog- 
backs and  ridges,  he  came,  in  the  waning  afternoon, 
to  the  boulder-strewn  pocket  of  the  Christ  of  the 
Pass.  And  suddenly  from  below,  louder  than  the 
ring  of  his  horse's  hoofs,  there  echoed  up  to  him  a 
sharp  sound  like  the  report  of  a  pistol. 

Come  of  long  outlawry,  Quesada  was  circum- 
spectly cautious.  The  report  might  have  exploded 
near  at  hand;  the  chances  were  that,  with  the  odd 
carrying  knack  of  sounds  high  on  mountains,  it 
had  echoed,  clear  and  distinct,  from  far  away.  But 
he  would  take  no  chances. 

The  ragged  prickly  gorse  and  huge  boulders, 
which  bestrewed  the  pass  about  the  foot  of  the 
cross,  furnished  unusual  hiding  places.  He  dis- 
mounted hastily,  tied  his  horse  behind  a  sumach 
bush  and,  behind  a  tall  boulder,  hid  himself. 

Twilight  deepened  quickly  into  full  dark  night. 
It  was  gruesome  waiting  there  beneath  the  pale 
white  figure  of  the  Saviour,  with  its  crown  of 
black  horsehair  and  red-painted  wounds.  Save  for 
the  wind  sweeping  through  the  pass  with  little 
shrill  noises,  nothing  stirred  or  sounded  in  the  long 
defile. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  295 

After  a  little,  Quesada  conquered  his  vague  ap- 
prehensions sufficiently  to  sup  upon  the  cold  sau- 
sages, dry  bread,  and  bota  of  wine  which  he  had  had 
the  forethought  to  sling  to  the  cantle  of  his  saddle. 
Then  it  was  on  again,  through  the  dark  night  and 
the  savage  uncouth  pass,  in  haste  to  accomplish  his 
errand  for  the  doctor. 

A  piece  of  moon  came  up  and  shot  long  pale 
slithers  of  light  down  the  rock  walls.  Ahead,  in 
the  sudden  wan  light,  he  made  out  the  bent  and 
bundled  figure  of  an  old,  shawl-wrapped  peasant 
woman.  She  was  coming  toward  him  up  the  gorge. 
She  seemed  making  little  catching  sounds,  as  if 
softly  weeping. 

"A  Dios,  mother,"  he  greeted,  as  he  rode  past. 

She  gave  him  neither  answer  nor  notice.  Her 
few  wisps  of  white  hair  streaming  in  disarray 
from  under  her  flat  worsted  cap,  she  went  by,  sob- 
ing  quietly,  as  if  utterly  oblivious  of  his  presence. 

Quesada  looked  after  her  bent  form  and  shook 
his  head  commiseratingly. 

"Ah,  there  has  been  some  little  domestic  trouble 
in  her  cabana  this  night!"  he  remarked  to  him- 
self. "And  she  is  going  on,  the  poor  creature,  to 
seek  strength  and  consolation  from  the  lonely  Christ 
of  the  Pass.  It  is  the  way  they  have  in  these 
desolate  hills — Hola !  What's  the  matter,  my  bony 
Pegasus ! " 

The  nag  beneath  him,  suddenly  shying,  had  come 
to  a  dead  stop,  and  now  was  shivering  in  every 
limb.  They  had  just  rounded  the  bend  which  por- 
taled  the  pass.  Leaping  afoot  in  the  stirrups, 
Quesada  gazed  over  the  lifted  frightened  head  of 


296  THE  WOLF-CUB 

the  horse.  Ahead  in  the  open  road  and  shapeless  in 
the  vague  moonlight,  he  saw  something  lying  still 
and  black! 

Ever  wary  of  ambush,  resultant  from  long  out- 
lawry, he  sprung  out  of  the  saddle  and  getting  the 
horse  by  the  bridle,  shoved  him  violently  back  into 
the  shadow  of  the  spur.  For  an  intolerable  frac- 
tion of  time,  he  peered  round  the  bend  and  watched. 

The  black  shapeless  huddle  in  the  road  never 
moved.  Was  it  some  '  animal,  sleeping  or  dead  ? 
He  crept  forward  cautiously,  Ferou's  old  revolver 
in  hand.  He  put  out  his  fingers  toward  the  vague 
outline  of  it.  He  touched  soft  cloth,  he  touched  a 
yielding  mass.  Wounds  of  Christ !  it  was  the  body 
of  a  man ! 

His  hand  jerked  back  in  superstitious  fear.  The 
man  did  not  move ;  he  was  lying  on  his  face. 
Quesada  put  out  his  hand  again  and  touched  the  still 
thing  with  a  braver  and  more  prying  touch.  All 
at  once  he  turned  it  over. 

Stark  in  the  moonlight  showed  a  short  knife- 
sharp  white  beard,  a  fine-chiseled  imperious  nose, 
and  a  swarthy  face,  lean  and  haughty  as  a  griffon 
vulture's!  The  revolver  fell  from  his  palsied 
hand. 

"Sangre  de  Cristo !  "  his  dry  lips  fluttered.  "It 
is  Don  Jaime  himself!  " 

But  no !  Don  Jaime  could  not  be  here.  Had  he 
not  left  the  hidalgo  doctor,  that  every  morning,  in 
the  village  above  in  the  sierras? 

A  grave  calmness  came  upon  him  then,  and  a 
questing  thoroughness.  Who  was  the  man? 
Somehow  his  features  seemed  familiar.  Was  it 


THE  WOLF-CUB  297 

only  because  of  that  striking  resemblance  to  Don 
Jaime? 

He  noticed,  all  at  once,  that  there  was  visible  on 
the  body,  under  the  powdering  of  dust  from  the 
road,  a  kind  of  red-edged  blue  jacket.  On  one 
sleeve  was  a  single  red  chevron,  and  to  one  side, 
almost  hidden  in  the  dust,  the  shimmer  of  a  patent 
leather  hat.  With  a  stifled  gasp,  recognition  leaped 
full-fledged  into  his  brain.  The  man  was  Senor 
Don  Esteban  Alvarado,  the  aged  sergeant  of  the 
Guardia  Civil ! 

No  more  than  a  few  weeks  before,  Quesada  had 
seen  the  sergeant  in  the  gorge  below  Minas  de  la 
Sierra,  dominant  with  life  and  lording  it  over  the 
apelike  policeman  Montara.  To  find  the  sergeant 
now  only  a  still  black  huddle  in  the  road  was  a  dis- 
tinct shock  to  the  bandolero.  He  knew  that  just 
the  day  before  either  the  sergeant  or  Montara  had 
shot  Ferou. 

Almost  incredulous,  Quesada  felt  the  body  for 
signs  of  life.  But  the  sergeant  was  dead.  His 
body  was  not  what  one  could  call  warm,  yet  neither 
was  it  cold  with  that  soft  stickiness  so  instinctively 
repulsive  to  the  living  touch.  The  sergeant  had 
been  killed  only  a  short  time  before.  A  caking  of 
dust  on  the  torso  of  his  jacket  showed  where  the 
blood  had  oozed  from  a  bullet  wound  in  the  chest, 
and  quickly  dried. 

"It  was  that  shot  I  heard !  "  the  bandolero  sur- 
mised. "But  who  killed  him?  And  why?  " 

Of  the  sudden,  he  remembered  the  old  woman 
who  had  passed  him  in  the  road,  crying  softly  to 
herself.  He  bounded  back  around  the  bend.  But 


298  THE  WOLF-CUB 

in  the  intervening  jiffy  of  time,  the  shadows  of  the 
defile  had  swallowed  her  from  sight. 

"She  is  the  sergeant's  poor  old  wife,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "She  must  have  come  upon  him,  slain 
like  a  dog  in  the  road.  I  knew  Don  Esteban,  his 
wife,  and  son  lived  in  these  hills.  Now  the  poor 
old  woman  is  gone  to  pray  before  the  Christ  of  the 
Pass  for  the  eternal  welfare  of  his  departed  soul. 
May  it  rest  in  peace !  " 

He  came  back  to  the  black  huddle,  still  pro- 
foundly puzzled  as  to  whom  had  done  the  killing. 
He  turned  the  body  over  into  that  posture  in  which 
he  had  found  it.  He  retrieved  his  fallen  revolver. 

He  was  about  to  mount  and  ride  on,  when  ab- 
ruptly he  halted,  one  foot  in  the  stirrup.  An  en- 
lightening but  bitter  thought  had  suddenly  shocked 
his  brain. 

For  a  long  time  now,  crimes  had  been  committed 
which  he  never  had  a  hand  in,  but  which  in  every 
case  had  been  laid  at  his  door.  Automobiles  had 
been  held  up,  toreros'  chapels  invaded,  men  robbed 
and  even  killed  by  a  young  man  described  as 
Jacinto  Quesada  when,  all  the  time,  Quesada  him- 
self had  been  quarantined  in  Minas  de  la  Si- 
erra. 

There  was  a  sinister  purpose,  a  foul  plan  under- 
lying the  criminal's  habit  of  masquerading  and  pos- 
ing as  Jacinto  Quesada.  Behind  the  personality  of 
Quesada,  he  was  cloaking  his  own  identity  and  com- 
mitting crimes  without  a  suspicion  pointing  toward 
himself.  What  could  be  more  probable  than  that 
this  same  criminal  had  killed  the  old  policeman  ? 

"It  was  that  masquerader !  "  the  bandolero  ex- 


THE  WOLF-CUB  299 

claimed  to  the  night.  And  he  swore:  "By  the 
Nails  of  Christ!" 

He  circled  by  the  prone  body  in  the  road,  his  horse 
nervous  and  quivering  with  instinctive  fright.  He 
kicked  the  nag  into  a  brisk  canter.  He  sought  thus 
in  action  to  quiet  the  thoughts  which  now  were  both- 
ering his  brain.  He  pursued  the  descent. 

But  the  turgid  thoughts  would  not  be  stifled. 
They  fluttered  in  his  head  like  the  pale  moonbeams 
on  the  rock  walls.  They  filled  him  with  gloom  as 
profound  as  the  shadow-haunted  deeps  of  the  nar- 
now  way. 

He,  Jacinto  Ouesada,  had  discovered  the  corpse. 
Was  that  not  strange,  portentous?  It  seemed  to 
him  now  as  if  the  hand  of  God  were  foreshadowing, 
in  this  grisly  discovery,  some  tragic  misfortune 
about  to  befall  him.  The  masquerader  had  com- 
mitted the  crime  of  blood.  Well,  the  penalty  for  it 
would  strike  most  surely  upon  Qnesada's  head!  Of 
that,  he  felt  superstitiously  certain! 

He  made  the  sign  of  the  horned  hand  in  an  at- 
tempt to  avert  the  impending  evil.  But  no  use. 
His  mind  would  not  still,  nor  would  the  misgivings 
die.  He  reined  in  the  nag. 

"There  is  but  one  thing  for  me  to  do,"  he  an- 
nounced to  himself.  "I  must  return  to  the  side  of 
the  corpse,  and  kneel  and  say  a  prayer  for  his  soul  in 
purgatory.  A  mere  word  of  requiescat  is  not 
enough.  He  was  mine  enemy  in  life;  I  must  show 
complete  Christian  forgiveness  toward  him,  now 
that  he  is  dead.  That  alone  will  prevent  a  curse 
from  falling  upon  me!  " 

He    was    kneeling    in   prayer    beside    the    dead 


300  THE  WOLF-CUB 

sergeant  and  had  reached  the  words:  "May  his 
soul,  and  all  the  souls  of  the  faithful  departed, 
through  the  mercy  of  God,  rest  in  peace,"  when,  all 
at  once  from  down  the  road,  his  ears  were  assailed 
by  a  startling  sound — the  hoofbeats  of  approaching 
horses ! 

Hastily  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  got  to 
his  feet.  Dragging  his  horse  by  the  bridle  after 
him,  he  concealed  both  nag  and  himself  completely 
in  the  deep  shadowy  elbow  of  the  spur. 

Came  to  him  then,  on  the  vagrant  breaths  of  the 
night  wind,  the  sound  of  voices.  They  were  men's 
voices,  loud  above  the  steady  hoofbeats  of  the 
horses,  as  if  raised  in  some  wordy  contention: 

"But  I  tell  you,  Pascual  Montara,  the  Wolf-Cub 
is  not  dead !  " 

"And  I  tell  you,  mi  capitan,  Quesada  is  dead! 
Right  now,  were  you  not  my  superior  officer,  I 
should  be  on  my  way  down  to  Getafe  to  file  Don 
Esteban's  report." 

"You  say  the  sargento,  Don  Esteban,  has  returned 
to  his  home  in  these  mountains  ?  " 

"Si ;  seguramente,  si !  His  work  is  accomplished. 
After  killing  the  Wolf-Cub,  Quesada,  is  he  not  en- 
titled to  a  good  rest?  Test  the  truth  of  my  state- 
ment, el  capitan;  ask  his  son,  young  Miguel  there, 
if  his  father  does  not  live  in  these  hills." 

"It  is  most  certainly  true,  mi  Capitan  Guevara," 
answered  a  new  voice.  "I  myself  was  born  and 
raised  in  a  portilla  of  the  Picacho  de  la  Veleta." 

"Za,  this  is  the  wild-goose  chase!  "  exclaimed  the 
raucous  voice  of  Montara.  "This  is  the  wild-goose 
chase,  I  tell  you — this  chase  after  a  man  already 


THE  WOLF-CUB  301 

dead!  Down  in  Getafe  by  now,  ten  thousand 
pesetas  should  be  awaiting  the  Frenchman  as  a  re- 
ward for  having  brought  about  the  killing  of  Jacinto 
Quesada." 

"And  that  was  when,  you  say  ?  " 

"I  have  told  you  twenty  times.  It  was  but  yes- 
terday." 

"Then  answer  me  this,  apelike  one !  I  have  asked 
it  of  you  a  hundred  times  before.  How  is  it  that 
the  diligence  from  Granada  to  Montefrio  was  held 
up  only  last  night  and  the  bandolero  announced  that 
he  was  Jacinto  Quesada  himself?  He  fled  into 
these  hills,  and  we  hot  after  him !  " 

The  men  of  the  Guardia  Civil  usually  ride  in 
pairs ;  but  this  was  a  troop  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  an 
extraordinary  troop.  Peering  around  the  spur, 
Quesada  made  out  eleven  uniformed  men  rid- 
ing smartly  toward  him  through  the  dim  moon- 
light. 

One  was,  of  course,  that  apelike  policeman, 
Pascual  Montara,  whom  Quesada  last  had  seen  in 
the  gorge  below  Minas  de  la  Sierra  with  Don  Este- 
ban.  It  appeared,  from  the  tenor  of  the  conversa- 
tion, that  Montara  had  been  on  his  way  down  to 
headquarters  to  file  the  sergeant's  report  of  Que- 
sada's  death  when  he  had  been  met  on  the  road  by 
the  troop  and  turned  back  by  the  order  of  the 
captain. 

Quesada  well  knew  this  captain  as  one  Luis  Gue- 
vara. Eight  others  he  recognized  as  gendarmes 
with  whom  he  had  had  an  occasional  brush.  The 
eleventh  was  the  dead  man's  son,  Miguel  Alvarado, 
youthful,  tall,  smoothly  brown  of  face,  and  as  subtle 


302  THE  WOLF-CUB 

and  gallant-looking  in  the  vague  moonlight  as  a 
sword  of  Toledo. 

Now,  such  a  large  body  of  the  Guardia  Civil  could 
be  seldom  seen  on  the  main-traveled  highroads,  let 
alone  in  the  gorge-pierced  sierras  of  the  Nevada. 
Something  untoward  was  afoot.  But  it  was  not 
the  mysterious  murder  of  the  old  sergeant  which 
had  called  them  together.  Not  one  of  the  approach- 
ing policemen  had  discovered  as  yet,  close  to  the 
entrance  of  the  pass,  that  huddle  lying  still  and 
black  in  the  road.  They  did  not  know  Don  Esteban 
was  dead. 

They  were  riding  after  Jacinto  Quesada,  whom 
Montara  believed  he  had  killed,  for  a  crime  that 
Jacinto  Quesada  himself  was  positive  he  never  had 
committed ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  party  of  policemen  discovered,  all  at  once, 
the  body  in  the  road.  Hastily,  from  their  huddling, 
quivering  horses,  they  dismounted.  They  turned 
the  body  over.  With  amazement  and  deep  con- 
sternation, they  saw  that  it  was  one  of  themselves, 
the  haughty  sergeant  of  police,  Senor  Don  Esteban 
Alvarado ! 

Miguel,  the  dead  man's  son,  stood  over  his  father's 
body. 

"It  is  that  Jacinto  Quesada !  "  he  said,  terribly 
moved.  "He  has  come  upon  my  poor  old  father 
alone  in  the  road,  and  he  has  killed  him  without  ruth. 
By  the  Wounds  of  Christ!"  he  swore,  lifting  his 
right  hand  to  heaven — "I  will  seek  out  this  mur- 
derer ;  I  will  hound  him  down  ;  at  last,  remorselessly, 
I  will  kill  him !  I  have  taken  my  oath." 

In  the  thick  shadow  of  the  bend,  Jacinto  Que- 
sada smiled  bitterly  to  himself.  Just  as  he  had  fore- 
casted, just  so  had  matters  shaped  themselves.  He 
was  blamed  for  the  crime  of  another! 

But  the  captain,  Luis  Guevara,  was  speaking : 

"This  proves  that  Montara  is  mistaken — the 
Wolf -Cub  is  still  alive!  As  you  say,  mi  pobre 
Miguel,  without  ruth  he  has  killed  your  father,  an 
old,  honored,  and  brave  member  of  the  police! 

"Carajo!  Only  once  before,  in  the  case  of  that 
traveling  Englishman,  has  Quesada  killed  a  man. 
His  conscience  will  be  more  disturbed  by  this 


304  THE  WOLF-CUB 

atrocity  than  by  his  usual  crimes.  Surely  now, 
after  this  vile  deed  of  blood,  will  he  seek  out  a 
priest  and  beg  forgiveness  of  God! 

"Pronto,  mis  camaradas!  Don  Esteban  has  not 
been  long  dead.  If  we  ride  to  the  nearest  church, 
we  may  be  in  time  to  capture  Quesada  while  he 
makes  his  confession!  " 

"But  there  are  few  men  of  the  cloth  in  these  hills, 
and  fewer  churches,"  objected  Miguel  Alvarado. 
"I  know ;  I  was  born  in  the  portilla  above  this  pass. 
My  old  mother  still  lives  there." 

"You  do  not  think  that  Quesada  is  a  heretic, 
despite  his  sacrilegious  abuse  of  the  bullfighters' 
chapel  of  Seville !  " 

Miguel  shook  his  head. 

"No.  I  think  that  he  will  go,  straightway,  to  the 
shrine  of  the  Christ  of  the  Pass.  It  is  but  a  little 
way  on,  in  a  lonely  pocket  of  this  gorge.  For  miles 
around  serranos,  burdened  by  sins,  kneel  before  the 
shrine,  and  pray,  and  beg  absolution  or  ease  of 
mind." 

"Muy  bueno !  "  said  the  captain.  "We  will  go  at 
once  to  this  shrine  and  wait  there,  in  ambush,  for 
Jacinto  Quesada  to  come  and  confess  his  sin.  We 
will  listen,  and  then  we  will  kill  him !  " 

There  was  a  creaking  of  leather  as  the  men  leaped 
into  the  saddles.  Quesada  shrunk  back  into  the 
dark  elbow  of  the  jutting  bend.  He  pressed  the 
nervous  horse  in  against  the  rock  wall.  To  still 
any  outcry  he  vised  his  hand  over  the  trembling 
nostrils  of  the  animal.  He  waited,  hardly  daring 
to  breathe. 

The  gendarmes,  following  the  lead  of  the  captain, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  305 

filed  into  the  pass  and  looking  straight  ahead,  un- 
suspecting the  dark,  went  by  him  almost  within 
arm's  length. 

He  waited  until  they  had  all  gone  on,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  pass  had  engulfed  them.  Then  he 
did  not  dodge  around  the  bend  and  pursue  the  decur- 
rent  way  he  had  been  going.  He  was  seized  with 
an  unreasoning  and  irresistible  impulse  to  follow  the 
troop  and  witness  whatever  might  be  the  outcome  of 
their  expedition  to  the  shrine.  Loosening  but  not 
removing  his  hand  from  the  horse's  nostrils,  he 
stalked  a  goodly  distance  behind  the  party  like  a 
quiet  long-legged  shadow. 

As  they  neared  the  boulder-hedged  pocket  which 
sheltered  the  shrine,  a  whisper  sibilated  through  the 
ranks  of  the  policemen.  Some  one  was  kneeling 
before  the  cross! 

Noiselessly  the  gendarmes  halted,  dismounted, 
quickly  hobbled  their  horses  with  the  long  reins,  and 
crept  stealthily  forward  between  the  boulders  and 
the  ragged  prickly  shrubbery.  Quesada  followed,  a 
safe  distance  behind. 

But  it  was  only  the  old  white-haired  wife  of  Don 
Esteban  who  knelt  before  the  pale  figure  of  the 
Christ,  with  its  crown  of  black  horsehair  and  red- 
painted  wounds.  As  he  crept  nearer,  behind  the 
police  and  between  the  weeds  and  rocks,  Quesada 
heard  her  voice.  In  quavering  tones,  she  was  speak- 
ing aloud.  She  was  confessing  that  she  was  the 
murderer  of  her  husband,  Sergeant  Esteban 
Alvarado ! 

Thinking  herself  alone  before  the  moon-white 
effigy  of  the  crucified  Saviour,  in  an  anguish  of 


3o6  THE  WOLF-CUB 

soul,  she  was  pouring  out  the  whole  pitiful  story. 
For  some  time,  she  had  been  tortured  by  a  har- 
rowing secret.  Her  son,  the  darling  of  her  life, 
although  a  member  of  the  Guardia  Civil  like 
his  father,  was  also  a  base  poseur  and  highway- 
man! 

It  was  his  infamous  plan  to  doff  the  policeman's 
uniform  and  steal  out  at  night  dressed  to  resemble 
the  bandolero,  Jacinto  Quesada.  Then,  his  crimes 
consummated,  he  would  put  the  uniform  on  again. 
That  honored  uniform  and  the  fact  that  all  his 
crimes  were  laid,  successfully  and  invariably,  at  the 
door  of  Jacinto  Quesada,  kept  suspicion  from  resting 
upon  him. 

It  had  smote  her  with  desolation  to  discover  that 
her  son  was  a  stealthy  outlaw.  Since  that  long-ago 
time  when  her  ancestors  had  been  reclaimed  from 
brigandage  and  become  Miquelets,  no  one  in  her 
family  ever  again  had  turned  criminal.  They  had 
all  been  policemen. 

Her  husband,  the  haughty  Don  Esteban,  was 
fiercely  proud  of  the  record  of  his  family  of  police- 
men. It  had  harassed  her  poor  old  soul,  filled  her 
with  overwhelming  terror  lest  Don  Esteban  should 
discover  the  perfidy  of  his  only  son.  Pride  of 
house  and  long  years  as  an  officer  of  the  Guardia 
Civil  had  made  him  unforgiving  of  crime,  unspar- 
ing and  inexorable  to  mete  out  justice  even  to  his 
own  kith  and  kin. 

That  afternoon,  after  a  lengthy  absence  on  police 
duty,  Don  Esteban  had  come  home  for  an  interval 
of  rest.  He  had  just  parted  from  Pascual  Montara, 
he  said,  who  was  to  take  his  report  down  to  Getafe. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  307 

Between  them,  the  morning  prior,  they  had  killed 
the  Wolf  of  the  Sierras,  Jacinto  Quesada! 

The  old  mother,  aghast  lest  by  mistake  he  had 
killed  his  own  son  masquerading  as  Quesada,  had 
thereupon,  in  distracted  fear  and  wild  grief,  blurted 
out  the  whole  truth. 

The  righteous  indignation  and  awful  rage  of  the 
old  sergeant  knew  no  bounds.  Solemnly  he  swore 
that  he  would  have  his  son's  life  for  this  outrageous 
conduct.  She  had  pleaded  with  him,  wept  and 
prayed.  But  he  had  cast  her  from  him  and  gone 
out  into  the  twilight  to  hound  down  the  son. 

She  had  followed  him  down  the  mountainside, 
insane  with  fear  for  the  life  of  her  only  child. 
He  had  discovered  her  and  commanded  her  to 
go  back.  But  she  crept  after  him,  stifling  her 
sobs. 

As  he  reached  the  road  and  the  slice  of  moon  came 
out  in  the  sky,  she  saw  him  take  out  a  revolver  and 
examine  it  to  see  that  it  was  loaded  and  ready  for 
use.  She  heard,  on  top  of  this,  the  clatter  of  an 
approaching  horse.  It  was  Quesada  mounted  on 
the  doctor's  nag.  But  she  did  not  know.  She 
thought  it  was  her  son,  her  pobre  Miguelito,  return- 
ing home  to  pay  her  a  visit  between  duties ! 

Carried  beyond  herself  by  the  sudden  crystallizing 
of  all  her  fears,  she  had  dashed  out  upon  her  hus- 
band and  struggled  with  him  to  wrest  the  revolver 
from  his  hands.  The  stern  sergeant  had  forgot 
himself  then.  He  went  mad  with  a  barbarous  fury. 
He  rained  blows  upon  her  old  tear-stained  face. 
Even  did  he  try  to  choke  her. 

But   her   terror   lent   her   strength   superhuman. 


a'o8  THE  WOLF-CUB 

She  clung  to  him,  pulled  and  wrenched  at  the  re- 
volver. She  was  like  some  tigress  fighting  for  her 
young. 

All  at  once,  there  was  a  sharp  hideous  explosion. 
Don  Esteban  slumped  like  a  burst  balloon  in  her 
arms.  He  clutched  his  chest,  made  a  gurgling  sound 
in  his  throat,  slipped  to  the  ground,  rolled  over,  and 
was  dead! 

Now,  in  a  terrible  turmoil  of  soul,  she  cast  her 
gnarled  workworn  hands  out  to  that  compassionat- 
ing Figure  on  the  Cross. 

"Dios  hombre,  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 
she  cried.  "I  have  suffered  in  the  last  few  hours  all 
the  torments  of  the  damned,  like  a  soul  lost  a  thou- 
sand years  in  purgatory!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do? 
Lord  and  Saviour,  Pitiful  One,  I  do  not  seek  for- 
giveness. I  want  to  repay,  I  want  to  atone!  I 
want  to  die  myself !  .  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  fainted  away.  She  got  to  her  feet  at 
last.  Muttering  feverish  prayers,  weeping  like  a 
soft  rain,  swaying  and  stumbling,  she  made  up  the 
path. 

The  policemen  shivered  out  of  their  state  of  sus- 
pended animation.  They  recovered  their  wits ;  their 
dead  eyes  glinted.  Savagely,  they  turned  to  look  at 
the  man  among  them  who  had  caused  the  whole  piti- 
ful tragedy — the  son  of  the  dead  sergeant  and  the 
poor  old  heartbroken  mother,  the  masquerader  and 
the  traitor,  Miguel  Alvarado! 

He  was  gone. 

Seeking  him,  they  dashed  wildly  among  the  boul- 
ders and  bushes.  They  beat  the  ragged  gorse  with 
their  carbines.  They  called  loudly  one  to  another. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  309 

Suddenly,  into  the  wan  moonlight,  stepped  forth 
Jacinto  Quesada. 

"You  seek  Miguel  Alvarado?"  he  asked. 

"Heart  of  God,  yes!" 

"Then  come  with  me." 

They  did  not  recognize  Quesada.  Not  only  be- 
cause of  the  pallor  of  the  moonlight,  but  more  be- 
cause he  was  garbed  in  the  gray  tweeds  and  foreign 
slouch  hat  of  the  Frenchman.  He  led  them  down 
the  path  to  where  they  had  hobbled  their  horses. 

Here,  supine  in  the  weeds  and  bound  hand  and 
foot,  lay  the  policeman,  young  Miguel.  In  the 
midst  of  his  mother's  pitiful  confession,  he  had 
crept  back  down  the  road  and,  just  about  to  mount 
his  horse  and  ride  away,  had  been  captured  by 
Quesada. 

"Oh,  Paquita,  maiden  of  my  soul !  "  he  was  wail- 
ing. "I  am  undone — undone!  Your  love  has 
robbed  me  of  my  father,  and  broken  the  poor  old 
heart  of  the  mamacita  of  me!  " 

Quesada  started  visibly. 

"What  is  that !  "  he  exclaimed.  "You  speak  of 
Paquita,  daughter  of  Pepe  Flammenca?  " 

"I  speak  and  dream  of  her  always!  I  love  her — 
God,  yes !  And  she  told  me  she  adored  Jacinto 
Quesada  because  he  was  a  bandolero;  she  told  me 
she  despised  my  uniform.  I  thought  to  emulate 
Quesada  and  thus  win  her  love.  But  I  have  only 
caused  the  death  of  my  old  father  and  brought  sor- 
row and  heartbreak  to  my  poor  old  mother  in  her 
last  years.  Ah,  Senor  Don  Jesu,  pity  me !  " 

But  there  was  that  in  the  glint  of  the  eyes  of  the 
clustered  policemen  which  spelled  death  for  Miguel 


310  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Alvarado.  He  was  a  traitor  to  all  the  ethics  of 
the  Guardia  Civil.  He  had  dishonored  and  defiled 
the  uniform  they  wore.  He  was  a  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing.  More;  he  was  a  shepherd  dog  turned 
poacher,  depredator,  wolf! 

"He  must  die !  "  said  the  captain. 

"Seguramente,  yes!  And  we  all  must  bind  our- 
selves to  keep  the  matter  secret." 

The  captain  nodded  grimly.  "This  is  an  affair 
of  honor  between  us  of  the  Guardia  Civil."  He 
turned  sharply  upon  Quesada. 

"Hombre,  you  are  the  only  outsider.  Will  you 
swear  to  tell  no  one,  to  lock  all  you  have  heard  this 
night  in  your  own  breast  ?  " 

Quesada  evaded  taking  the  oath  of  secrecy.  Why 
should  he,  the  Wolf  of  the  Sierras,  make  covenant 
with  the  podencos  of  the  Guardia  Civil?  Besides, 
a  higher  emotion  stirred  him.  In  his  unknowable 
Spanish  soul,  he  was  moved  to  pity  for  Miguel 
Alvarado. 

"Mi  capitan,"  he  said,  "if  you  kill  this  man,  you 
will  do  a  wrong.  He  is  young;  he  has  youth  and 
true  penitence  to  help  him  reform.  It  is  a  terrible 
lesson  he  has  received  this  night.  He  is  the  dupe  of 
a  woman,  a  wench  of  the  Gitano — " 

"A  plague  on  the  yellow  witch !  "  muttered  Mon- 
tara. 

"Senores,"  Quesada  appealed  to  them,  "you 
cannot  right  what  is  now  an  irreparable  wrong,  you 
cannot  bring  Don  Esteban  back  to  life.  Would  you 
rob  the  poor  old  mother,  then,  of  her  only  paltry 
happiness  and  hope? 

"Heed  me,  you  of  the  Guardia  Civil !     This  man 


THE  WOLF-CUB  311 

has  outraged  Jacinto  Quesada  more  than  he  has  you. 
Yet  I  know  that  if  Jacinto  Quesada  were  to  have 
this  Alvarado's  fate  in  his  hands,  to-night,  he  would 
let  him  go !  " 

He  had  done  what  he  could.  He  moved  off  to 
where  he  had  tied  his  horse  to  a  bush.  The  police- 
men conversed  together  in  low  tones.  As  he 
mounted,  Captain  Guevara  exclaimed: 

"But  who  are  you  that  you  tell  us  all  this?  " 

He  kicked  his  nag  and  started  away.  Through 
the  moon-filtering  dark,  he  flung  back,  "Jacinto 
Quesada !  " 

Ere  they  could  recover  from  their  stupefaction, 
he  was  only  a  clattering  noise  in  the  night. 

He  was  circling,  presently,  by  the  dead  body  of 
the  old  sergeant  in  the  road.  Of  a  sudden,  a  volley 
of  rifle  reports  detonated  between  the  rock  walls 
behind  him. 

"That  will  be  Miguel  Alvarado,"  he  said  gloom- 
ily. He  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  Paquita !  "  he  ex- 
claimed to  the  night,  "you  have  exacted  a  fearful 
payment  for  my  rash  scorn  of  you — you  have  killed 
two  men,  this  night,  and  broken  the  heart  of  a  poor 
old  woman !  " 

He  rode  thoughtfully  on. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

LADEN  with  medicinal  supplies,  Quesada  returned 
to  Minas  de  la  Sierra.  He  found  the  American 
walking  about  on  his  own  two  legs  and  able,  at  a 
pinch,  to  lend  a  hand  to  the  doctor.  Morales,  atten- 
uated but  rapidly  repairing  in  strength,  occupied  the 
bandolero's  old  chair  tilted  against  one  mud  wall  of 
the  sick  bay.  For  long  hours  the  matador  thus  sat 
in  the  crisp  sunlight  and  held  a-straddle  on  his  knees 
the  slowly  recovering,  oddly  wrinkled  little  Gabriel. 
Like  some  sweet  Sister  of  Mercy,  Felicidad  moved 
solicitously  among  the  convalescing  serranos,  two 
pale  roses  of  health  constantly  mantling  her  smooth 
ivory  cheeks. 

The  bane  was  lifting.  A  period  of  continuous 
mild  warmth,  free  of  neblinas  and  snowstorms  and 
icy  blasts,  had  assisted  and  incalculably  sustained  the 
efforts  of  the  hidalgo  doctor  in  driving  the  pestilence 
from  the  pueblo. 

Ensued  more  days  of  sun  sparkle,  more  nights 
clear  as  crystal,  and  the  hospital  at  last  was  empty. 
Announced  Don  Jaime  thereupon : 

"The  barrio  must  endure  five  more  days  of  quar- 
antine. We  must  make  sure  the  plague  is  snuffed 
out,  buried.  There  must  be  no  new  cases." 

Two  days  passed.  Then  three.  No  man  slapped 
under.  They  entered  upon  the  fourth. 

The  scourge  was  being  weighed  in  a  hair-fine  bal- 
ance. It  was  a  deciding  interval.  It  was  a  terrific 


THE  WOLF-CUB  313 

time  of  waiting,  and  dread  and  hungry  longing  that 
tried  the  blood  and  iron  of  every  man. 

Quesada,  shaking  with  the  contagious  apprehen- 
sion, buttonholed  the  American  as  he  came  out  of 
the  cabanas  after  completing  some  mission  for  the 
doctor. 

"How  goes  it,  Senor  Carson?  " 

"All  right  so  far.  But  gad,  it's  tough!  It 
wasn't  so  bad  when  they  were  dying.  These  days 
when  there  are  no  stricken,  and  the  sick  bay  is 
empty,  and  each  man  watches  the  next  in  fear  lest 
he  should  succumb — that's  maddening!  " 

They  talked  jerkily.  Quesada  wanted  to  forget 
the  trial  of  waiting,  to  ease  his  mind  of  the  down- 
bearing  strain.  To  change  the  subject,  he  said: 

"I  have  learned  something.  About  the  man  who 
was  sticking-up  persons  and  saying  he  was  I, 
Jacinto  Quesada.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Guardia 
Civil  named  Miguel  Alvarado.  Down  by  the  shrine 
of  Christ  of  the  Pass,  his  own  kind,  the  Guardia 
Civil,  shot  him  to  death." 

The  American  understood.  When  Quesada  first 
had  returned  to  the  village  poisoned  with  worry  at 
what  he  had  overheard  from  the  policemen  then 
waiting  in  the  gorge,  he  had  told  Carson  the  begin- 
ning of  the  story  of  the  masquerader.  Now,  at 
hearing  its  tragic  end,  Carson  merely  nodded.  All 
the  while,  as  he  listened,  he  eyed  Don  Jaime  with 
fearful  anxiety  as  the  physician  moved  in  and  out 
from  choza  to  cabana. 

The  racking  strain — the  long  torture  of  work  and 
travail  of  waiting — showed  plainly  in  the  hidalgo 
doctor, — in  the  high  cheek  bones  almost  bursting 


314  THE  WOLF-CUB 

through  the  deep  swarth  skin,  in  the  thinly  chiseled 
nose  and  the  gray  eyes  that  seemed  crystallized  to  a 
hard  quartz.  He  was  working  arduously,  Don 
Jaime — prodigiously,  epically,  like  a  true  son  of 
Hispanus,  that  first  Spaniard  sprung  from  the  loins 
of  Hercules! 

Hardly  daring  to  breathe,  the  barrio  entered  upon 
the  fifth  and  occult  day.  Twenty-four  hours  more 
of  immunity  from  disease,  and  the  tension  would  be 
over,  the  iron  clutch  of  the  quarantine  lifted. 

Night  shut  down,  black,  breathing,  full  of  the 
nameless.  Groups  collected.  The  suspense  was  on 
them  like  thumbscrews. 

Dawn  came  slowly,  a  leaden  wash,  Don  Jaime 
went  his  final  rounds. 

No  man  had  stuck  his  toes  toward  heaven ;  in  the 
night,  no  man  had  gone  under  from  the  plague. 
The  grip  of  the  horror  was  broken ! 

"Infected  Minas  de  la  Sierra  is  once  again  clean 
and  whole,"  announced  Don  Jaime.  And  he 
breathed  fervently :  "Thank  God !  " 

The  final  requiem  had  been  said.  The  last  to 
waste  away  and  wear  forever  the  cold  cerement  of 
death  was  the  banderillero,  Alfonso  Robledo,  who 
so  ably  had  seconded  Quesada  in  halting,  for  the 
while,  Don  Jaime's  cruel  vengeance.  That  had  been 
six  days  gone. 

The  pale  gold  sun  hung  high  in  the  heavens  like 
an  eucharistic  wafer  emblematic  of  victory  over  dis- 
ease and  death.  It  was  noon  of  that  Day  Resur- 
gent. Now  that  the  slavish  and  heroic  labor  was 
over  for  Don  Jaime,  the  great  good  accomplished, 
he  quietly  got  his  horse  prepared  for  the  return  to 


THE  WOLF-CUB  315 

his  lizard-haunted,  gloomy,  and  lonely  casa  outside 
Granada. 

Mounted  and  ready,  he  paused  on  the  great  rock 
at  the  brink  of  the  village  to  bid  the  thankful  ser- 
ranos  a  saturnine  adieu.  All  the  while,  unwaver- 
ingly, his  gray  quartz  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the 
certain  cabana  which  had  been  given  over  to  Felici- 
dad.  And  then,  as  loudly  the  villagers  chorused 
their  gratitude  and  well-wishes,  that  eventuated 
which  Don  Jaime  knew  would  surely  eventuate. 

Her  low  white  brow  knuckled  with  perplexity, 
Felicidad  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  cabana. 
The  hullaballoo  had  bewildered  and  attracted 
her. 

"Felicidad!" 

As  if  drawn  and  irresistibly  compelled  by  the  elec- 
tric fluid  of  some  hypnotic  influence,  slow  as  in  a 
trance,  Felicidad  moved  toward  the  avenger. 
Watching  her,  Don  Jaime's  thin-edged  ferule  of  a 
face  slowly  iced  into  rigid  and  pitiless  lines. 

Yet,  deep  in  his  heart,  the  great  passions  that  once 
had  made  Don  Jaime  so  formidable — those  classic 
passions  of  ire  and  resentment — like  hard  but  friable 
rock  had  been  slowly  worn  away.  Too  often,  alto- 
gether too  often,  had  his  wrathful  hand  been 
stayed.  Time  and  his  prodigious  struggle  with  the 
plague  had  combined  to  crush  and  crumble  to  bits  the 
fury  in  his  rock-ribbed  soul. 

No  longer  was  he  strong  with  faith  in  the  right- 
eousness of  his  cause.  He  was  only  moved,  now,  by 
a  determination  to  fulfill  his  solemn  word,  to  live 
up  to  the  oath  he  had  sworn.  Pride  alone  possessed 
him.  He  was  being  swept  along  toward  a  damna- 


316  THE  WOLF-CUB 

tion  of  crime  by  the  momentum  of  an  inexorable 
pride ! 

He  himself  felt  the  weakness,  the  blight.  In  an 
open  confession  that  showed  forth  his  inward  doubt, 
in  a  heart-poignant  appeal  to  Heaven  beseeching 
leniency  for  that  awful  thing  he  felt  he  now  must 
do,  he  cried  out: 

"Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord ;  but  the  bleed- 
ing wounds  of  Christ  and  the  thorn-pierced  heart  of 
His  Most  Virgin  Mother  shall  intercede  for  my 
grievously  sinning  soul  on  the  Day  of  Judgment!  " 

He  raised  the  heavy  horse-pistol. 

The  serranos  fell  from  about  him  like  flung  chaff. 
The  spittle  dried  in  their  mouths;  they  could  not 
speak.  They  were  blind  of  eye,  and  blind  and  black 
of  brain  as  to  what  to  do. 

The  scene  was  much  as  before.  On  the  great 
rock  of  the  village,  Don  Jaime  sat  rigid  in  the  saddle 
like  some  black-browed  Destroying  Angel  and  men- 
aced, with  his  huge  pistol,  the  pale  trembling  lily  of 
a  girl. 

But  this  time  it  was  not  Quesada  who  intervened. 
The  bandolero  long  had  brooded  upon  the  coming  of 
this  inevitable  moment ;  yet  now,  when  ultimately  it 
had  struck,  the  moment  found  him  standing  off  to 
one  side  and  a  good  twenty  feet  from  the  great  rock 
where  bulked  up  Don  Jaime.  Ere  the  bandolero 
could  interpose  himself  to  obstruct  Don  Jaime's  will, 
ere  he  could  dash  forward  to  shoulder  the  perilous 
rebuttal,  came  interposition  from  an  unexpected  and 
astonishing  source.  Stepped  forward  the  Ameri- 
can, John  Fremont  Carson ! 

Big,   broad-shouldered,   and   wornly   angular  of 


THE  WOLF-CUB  317 

face,  Carson  stepped  before  the  agitated  girl,  wholly 
between  her  and  the  threat  of  the  leveled  gun.  He 
lifted  dauntless  blue  eyes  to  her  Hebraic  Jehovah  of 
a  father. 

"Senor  Don  Jaime,  you  have  no  longer  the  right 
to  seek  retribution  on  Felicidad,"  he  said  with  quiet 
but  positive  defiance.  "Ere  you  can  retaliate  on  her, 
you  must  deal  with  me.  She  is  now  my  affianced 
bride!" 

Don  Jaime's  jaw  sagged ;  an  astounded  gleam  zig- 
zagged across  the  hard  quartz  of  his  eyes.  But 
quickly  came  to  his  aid  the  iron  composure  of  the 
hidalgo.  Without  lowering  the  pistol,  he  turned 
eagle-sharp  white  head  and  stony  eyes  to  look  down 
frigidly  at  the  square-jawed  American  facing  him 
in  the  street.  With  a  forced  politeness,  he  returned : 

"In  Spain,  know  you,  Senor  Americano,  one  must 
ask  the  father  for  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  Should 
the  father  agree,  the  consent  of  the  girl  follows  as 
a  matter  of  course.  We  are  very  hidebound  in  these 
conventions,  we  Moors;  no  other  ways  command 
honor.  The  plighted  word  of  a  mere  chit  of  a  girl 
— Dios  hombre!  who  would  think  of  respecting 
that!" 

He  laughed  harshly. 

"Grandee  of  Spain,"  answered  Carson  in  the 
same  lofty  Spanish  manner  as  that  used  by  the 
father,  "in  my  country,  should  a  man  desire  a  girl, 
he  asks  that  girl  in  marriage;  if  the  girl  reciprocates, 
they  bother  asking  by-your-leave  of  no  one  else. 
Neither  man  nor  American  woman  would  consider 
for  a  moment  allowing  a  parent  to  select  the  com- 
panion and  helpmate  of  a  lifetime. 


318  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"This  is  not  America;  this  is  Spain.  I  know 
that,  hidalgo  doctor;  and  whenever  I  can,  I  try  to 
obey  Spain's  laws  of  conduct.  I  would  have  sought 
your  agreement  and  your  blessing  but  for  one  good 
reason.  Felicidad  is  no  longer  your  daughter! 
Because  you  believe  she  has  dishonored  your  ancient 
name,  you  have  publicly  disclaimed  her  as  a  Torre- 
blanca  y  Moncada. 

"Good  God,  man !  "  Carson  exclaimed,  the  unten- 
able and  even  outrageous  incongruity  of  the  doctor's 
position  suddenly  hitting  him  like  the  smash  of  a 
bludgeon.  "How  can  you  contend  for  a  father's 
rights  over  Felicidad  after  the  harsh  and  cruel  way 
you  have  used  her !  Why,  at  this  very  moment,  you 
seek  her  life!  " 

That  struck  home.  A  murderous  gleam  leaped 
into  Don  Jaime's  eyes.  His  eyes  blazed  like  chips 
of  glass. 

"Senor  Americano,"  he  said  huskily,  in  shaking 
voice,  "do  you  not  know  that  you  are  very  rash?  I 
am  armed  and  ready;  I  look  at  you  and  see  no 
weapon  in  your  hands.  Do  you  think  that  a  Torre- 
blanca  y  Moncada  will  long  endure  a  quarrel  in 
words?  I  warn  you,  my  cheeky  one!  Cease  chal- 
lenging my  prerogatives!  Else  shall  you  provoke 
me  to  kill  you !  " 

It  was  more  than  a  threat.  Don  Jaime  de  Torre- 
blanca  y  Moncada,  grandee  by  birth  and  breeding, 
hidalgo  of  the  old  granite-jawed,  eagle-stern  and 
eagle-haughty  Spanish  sort,  trained  the  huge  horse- 
pistol,  with  the  words,  upon  the  square-jawed  Amer- 
ican facing  him  in  the  street ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IT  exasperated  and  incensed  Carson — this  high- 
handed attempt  of  the  hidalgo  to  gag  and  stop  his 
mouth,  to  cow  and  overawe  his  soul. 

He  did  not  bother  now  to  temper  or  anyway  mol- 
lify his  words.  Bluntly,  boldly,  he  asserted : 

"I  know  your  sort  of  man,  Don  Jaime !  We  have 
them  in  my  country — the  Kentuckians,  for  instance ! 
You  do  not  really  desire  to  kill  Felicidad.  Your 
pride  goads  you,  but  your  heart  is  no  longer  in  the 
work.  And  now  you  are  more  pleased  than  cha- 
grined that  I  have  stepped  forth  as  her  champion — 
you  think  to  satisfy  your  pride  by  working  up 
enough  venom  against  me  to  bump  me  off  and  let 
the  matter  end  there! 

"I'll  take  my  chances,  proud  hidalgo.  I'll  fight 
you  every  move  until  bitten  by  your  lead.  But  you 
are  not  going,  as  you  say,  to  wage  much  longer  this 
war  in  words.  Very  soon  you  are  either  going  to 
get  hot  enough  to  plug  me,  or  you  are  going  to 
throw  up  the  sponge!  Oh,  I  know  your  sort! 
You'll  do  one  or  the  other.  But  one  thing  you  will 
not  do — you  will  not  allow  yourself  to  be  made 
ridiculous!  " 

Don  Jaime  was  staggered.  The  American's  talk 
was  a  talk  strange  and  utterly  new  to  him.  John 
Fremont  Carson  fought  him  with  weapons  that  he 
had  not  known  existed. 

Don  Jaime  lowered  the  heavy  horse-pistol  to  his 


320  THE  WOLF-CUB 

knee.  A  spirit  of  sardonic  deviltry  entered  into 
him.  He  would  worst  this  cheeky  American  on  his 
own  ground!  His  lips  curling  half  in  smile,  half 
in  sneer,  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes,  he  said : 

"Senor  Americano,  I  will  combat  you  and  crush 
you  with  your  own  kind  of  weapon.  I  will  van- 
quish you  with  words — with  one  question!  But  it 
must  be  understood,  for  the  nonce,  that  I  possess 
unqualifiedly  and  absolutely  the  right  to  speak  as 
Felicidad's  father." 

The  American  nodded,  a  kind  of  bewildered  won- 
der crowding  his  eyes. 

"For  the  nonce,  that  prerogative  is  yours,"  he 
agreed. 

"Bueno!  Then  straightway  I  challenge  you  to 
prove  yourself  of  fit  birth  to  be  Felicidad's  husband! 
This  is  Spain,  senor.  I  speak  now  as  a  Spanish 
father.  More ;  I  am  a  hidalgo,  and  I  speak  for  my 
daughter  who  is  the  daughter  of  a  hidalgo  of  Spain ! 
She  has  an  inheritance  of  blood  and  pride  which  you 
cannot  gainsay,  but  which  you  must  equal  if  you 
would  marry  her !  " 

Dan  Jaime  spoke  with  a  Latin  fluency  of  exposi- 
tion, in  a  rushing  torrent  of  words.  His  eyes 
sparkled  like  vitreous  slag. 

"Look  you,  my  cheeky  one !  No  man  of  common 
birth  may  hope  to  aspire  to  my  daughter.  We 
Spanish  grandees  are  a  feudal  race,  caste-bound  and 
arrogant  of  birth.  Perhaps  you  do  not  understand 
the  true  color  of  the  situation,  eh?  Then  know  you 
that  even  in  Spain  there  are  not  more  than  a  score 
of  men  who  are  my  equal  in  seignior  blood  and 
ancient  knightly  name ! 


THE  WOLF-CUB  321 

"Now,  for  any  one  outside  this  aristocratic  circle 
to  yearn  and  quest  for  my  daughter's  hand  would 
be  a  sun-daring  presumption.  Take  this  Manuel 
Morales,  for  an  instance."  Momentarily  his  eyes 
leaped  up  the  street  to  where  the  matador  stood,  his 
wasted  form  propped  against  the  mud  wall  of  the 
hospital. 

"Morales  is  the  hero  of  the  peninsula,  as  you 
know — a  popular  idol,  a  famous  and  distinguished 
man.  Royalties  and  hidalgos  ask  after  his  health, 
greet  him  by  name  and  with  handshake.  He  is  the 
most  renowned  of  modern  bullfighters.  And  he  is 
a  rich  man — richer  far  than  are  most  grandees ;  for 
much,  much  gold  has  come  to  him  along  with  his 
well-deserved  success. 

"Yet  never  would  Morales  dare  to  look  for  a  wife 
among  blooded  folk !  Indeed,  should  he  be  so  mad 
as  to  presume  so  far,  the  hidalgo  whom  he  thus 
affronted  would  kill  him  without  ruth,  as  for  a 
deadly  grievance.  And  at  once  that  hidalgo  would 
be  acquitted  of  all  wrong  by  the  public  opinion  of 
Spain.  Aye,  though  Morales  is  the  idol  of  all 
Spaniards ! 

"That  is  right  and  as  it  should  be;  for  when  all 
is  said,  he  is  only  a  bullfighter.  And  bullfighters 
have  no  social  standing;  they  are  not  men  of  birth 
nor  breeding;  they  are  a  low  caste.  Ask  Morales 
himself.  Even  now  he  is  nodding  agreement  to  my 
every  word !  " 

Carson  did  not  trouble  to  turn  his  head  to  gain 
corroboration  of  the  doctor's  statement  from  the 
matador  up  the  street.  He  realized  already  the 
poser  Don  Jaime  was  soon  to  spring.  He  eyed 


322  THE  WOLF-CUB 

the  haughty  hidalgo  fixedly,  a  peculiar  smile  slowly 
parting  his  lips. 

"And  Quesada,"  Don  Jaime  swept  on — "Jacinto 
Quesada  is  in  the  same  case  as  Morales.  My  words 
apply  to  him  as  much  as  they  do  to  any  bullfighter. 
Not  because  he  is  the  Wolf  of  the  Sierras,  a  ban- 
dolero and  outlaw.  Seguramente,  no!  But  only 
because  he  is  of  common  birth." 

Don  Jaime  paused.  He  looked  down  at  the 
American.  The  half-smile  had  altogether  fled  his 
lips.  His  lips  were  palpably  sneering. 

"Now  as  to  yourself,  my  cheeky  one!"  he  said 
with  biting  sharpness.  "It  is  often  said  that  the 
Americans  are  a  nation  of  canaille.  Can  you  prove 
yourself  worthy  of  the  daughter  of  a  Spanish  hi- 
dalgo and  grandee?  I  ask  you  that.  I  wait  for 
your  answer." 

"You  ask  me  to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  not  of 
common  birth?  " 

Don  Jaime  nodded  vigorously.  Caspita!  this 
was  indeed  a  trump  card!  All  the  venom  of  his 
embittered  spirit  showed. 

"You  cannot  prove  that,  eh?  Then  it  is  true, 
is  it  not,  that  the  Americans  are  a  nation  of — " 

"One  moment,  Don  Jaime.  Your  Spanish  roy- 
alty is  the  keystone,  the  fountainhead,  of  Spanish 
society,  is  it  not?  Alfonso,  your  king,  is  as  good 
and  better  an  aristocrat  than  any  of  his  hidalgos — " 

"There  are  some  that  would  dispute  you  there. 
Myself,  I  know  my  line  is  older !  My  ancestors — " 

The  American  was  broadly  smiling. 

"You  will  admit,  however,  that  Alfonso  is  of  un- 
common birth? " 


THE  WOLF-CUB  323 

"Seguramente,  yes!  Is  he  not  my  master  and 
lord!" 

"Well,  then!  I  was  born  in  the  same  year  as 
Alfonso,  1886.  He  was  the  son  of  a  ^ing;  I  the 
son  of  an  American  millionaire.  Because  Alfonso 
was  such  a  high  and  mighty  infant,  his  birth  was 
a  long-heralded  public  affair.  And  so  was  mine. 
When  I  was  born,  the  newspapers  of  America  re- 
marked that  here  was  no  common  birth.  In  long 
articles  they  compared  it  to  the  birth  of  Alfonso, 
citing  statistics  to  show  the  principalities  in  mines 
and  manufactories  I  would  rule,  the  kingly  revenues 
that  would  pour  annually  into  my  coffers  of  state. 

"Alfonso's  actual  birth  was  marked  by  great 
pomp  and  a  certain  ceremony.  To  prove  that  he 
was  truly  the  son  of  his  royal  mother,  that  every- 
thing was  aboveboard  and  as  it  should  be,  in  the 
room  with  the  queen,  when  Alfonso  first  put  in  an 
appearance,  were  a  round  dozen  and  more  hi- 
dalgos— " 

<(That  is  our  Spanish  custom  when  royal  infants 
are  born." 

"Just  so.  A  very  uncommon  birth!  Well,  with 
my  mother,  when  first  I  put  in  an  appearance,  were 
a  round  dozen  doctors  and  nurses  of  all  kinds, 
trained  and  practical,  wet  and  dry!  Quite  an  un- 
common birth,  too,  don't  you  think?  " 

What  could  Don  Jaime  do  ?  Carson  had  worsted 
him  signally.  The  grim  drama  had  become  almost 
a  comedy,  a  farce ! 

Don  Jaime  feared  longer  to  persist.  It  would 
not  do  for  him  to  be  made  ridiculous  and  laughable. 

All  at  once  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  beyond 


324  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Carson,  beyond  Felicidad.  In  a  great  voice,  he 
called  out : 

"Put  up  your  gun,  Quesada!  I  am  a  wineskin 
squeezed  dry;  I  am  empty  of  all  words  and  all 
passions ;  I  am  done !  Put  up  your  gun,  you  Wolf- 
Cub  you,  and  I  will  put  up  mine!  I  had  meant  to 
beat  you  to  the  first  shot — to  kill  Felicidad  and 
then  have  you  kill  me!  But  now — Carajo,  I  am 
done!" 

Like  mechanical  toys  on  clockwork  pivots,  every 
man  and  woman  within  sound  of  the  doctor's  great 
voice,  turned  simultaneously  to  look  for  Quesada. 

There,  twenty  feet  away,  stood  the  wolfishly 
gaunt  bandolero,  a  revolver  in  his  right  hand  trained 
rigidly  on  Don  Jaime!  That  revolver  had  once 
been  Jacques  Ferou's! 

Not  before  had  John  Fremont  Carson  noticed  the 
revolver  in  Quesada's  hand.  He  was  taken  com- 
pletely by  surprise.  Little  had  he  realized  how 
close  to  black  tragedy  had  been  the  drama  in  which 
he  had  enacted  so  prominent  a  part! 

In  the  American's  eyes,  in  the  eyes  of  every  man 
there  present,  the  hidalgo  on  horseback  loomed  up, 
then  and  on  the  sudden,  with  a  new  and  imposing 
dignity,  a  rare  nobility  and  magnificence.  Don 
Jaime  alone  had  known  of  the  imminent  threat  of 
Quesada's  revolver.  All  the  while  he  had  striven 
to  attain  his  vengeance,  all  that  while  Don  Jaime 
had  trusted  his  life  to  a  hair.  Quesada  had  him 
covered.  The  mere  press  of  a  finger  on  the  trig- 
ger, and  Don  Jaime  would  have  toppled  out  of  the 
saddle — a  dead  man! 

Quesada  had  thought  Don  Jaime  all  unaware. 


THE  WOLF-CUB  325 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  comprehended  the  sub- 
lime insolence  of  the  hidalgo's  persistency. 
Abashed  and  shamefaced,  he  lowered  the  revolver 
and  shoved  it  back  into  his  belt. 

Don  Jaime  lifted  the  horse-pistol  from  his  knee 
and  slipped  it  into  the  holster  slung  from  the  saddle. 
Then,  without  another  word  and  without  even  a 
glance  toward  his  daughter,  he  turned  the  old  nag's 
head  about  and  went  deliberately  down  the  goat 
path. 

He  never  once  looked  round.  But  his  back 
seemed  not  quite  so  rigid  nor  his  old  white  head 
so  erect.  All  at  once  there  were  about  the  unmis- 
takable signs  of  an  old,  old  man.  And  in  the  slow 
pace  of  the  faithful  nag,  there  seemed  something 
that  wanted  to  linger  yet  was  urged  on  by  pride, 
inexorable  and  pitiless. 

"Oh,  mi  pobre  padre !  "  wailed  Felicidad  after 
him.  "His  heart  breaks  and  he  is  lonely!  And 
there  is  only  old  whining  Pedro  and  the  childish 
Teresa  to  welcome  him  back  to  the  gloomy  casa !  " 

Save  for  the  creaking  of  the  saddle,  the  soft 
pad-pad  of  the  horse's  hoof-falls,  nothing  answered 
from  down  the  goat  path.  For  the  first  time  then, 
in  all  that  intolerable  eternity  of  death  and  disease 
and  lusting  vengeance,  Felicidad  wilted  in  a  swoon 
to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

"Bv  gad !  "  exclaimed  Carson,  leaping  to  the  side 
of  Felicidad  and  lifting  her  tenderly  in  his  arms. 
"There  will  yet  be  a  wedding  down  in  the  casa  of 
Torreblanca  y  Moncada  outside  Granada!  Come, 
Jacinto;  lend  us  your  aid.  Get  horses!  We  must 
overtake  the  hidalgo  doctor !  " 

"There  are  no  horses  in  Minas  de  la  Sierra,"  re- 
turned Quesada.  "There  are  only  mules  and  bor- 
ricos  which  the  serranos  use  to  sleigh  their  cords  of 
pine  down  to  the  lower  torrents,  and  to  carry  their 
panniers  of  white  manzanilla  into  the  towns." 

"Anything!"  urged  the  American.  Felicidad  in 
his  arms  was  showing  signs  of  recovering  conscious- 
ness. "Mules,  borricos,  anything  upon  which  we 
can  ride !  " 

"Muy  bueno,"  assented  Quesada  readily.  "It  is 
very  good,  and  I  will  go  along  with  you.  They 
say  Jacinto  Quesada  is  dead;  I  can  ride  the  roads 
with  impunity.  And  the  roads  are  paved  with  gold 
for  such  as  I !  " 

"I  will  go  also,"  volunteered  Morales — "I,  and 
what  remains  of  my  cuadrilla.  In  his  offices  down 
in  Seville  sits  my  manager,  the  Senor  Don  Arturo 
Guerra,  signing  contract  after  contract;  and  these 
contracts  I  must  soon  fulfill,  or  lose  much  money 
and  much  prestige  with  the  presidentes  of  the  bull 
rings  and  the  aficionados  of  Spain." 

"Hola,  mis  serranos ! "  called  Quesada.     "Fetch 


THE  WOLF-CUB  327 

forth  your  beasts.  The  caballeros  would  look  at 
them  and  pay  you  well  in  golden  notes  on  the  Bank 
of  Spain!" 

A  little  later,  the  cavalcade  wound  down  the 
loops  of  the  goat  path.  In  all  the  pueblo,  there 
had  proved  to  be  only  three  burden-bearing  ani- 
mals— two  mules  and  one  ass.  However,  Morales' 
cuadrilla  had  been  depleted  by  the  loss  through  the 
plague  of  Alfonso  Robledo  and  Coruncho  Lopez, 
and  the  death  in  the  rebellion  of  the  banderillero, 
Baptista  Monterey;  so  the  party  managed,  by 
doubling  up,  to  make  shift. 

There  were  altogether  seven  of  them.  Morales 
and  the  three  surviving  men  of  the  cuadrilla  paired 
off  on  the  two  mules.  Felicidad,  still  pale  from  her 
faint  and  pensive  with  longing,  jogged  behind  Car- 
son on  the  crupper  of  the  sturdy  sure-footed  ass. 

Quesada  laughed  when  they  begged  him  also  to 
mount  one  of  the  mules. 

"It  would  be  too  much  for  the  animal.  And 
besides,"  he  added  with  a  return  of  his  old  pride, 
"I  am  the  Wolf  of  the  Sierras.  My  long  moun- 
taineer's legs  are  swifter  to  move  now  and  even 
more  tireless  than  the  slow  hoofs  of  any  stupid 
borrico.  Hold  your  peace,  mis  camaradas.  Ere 
nightfall,  you  shall  see !  " 

Accoutred  in  the  neat  gray  tweeds  and  slouch 
hat  of  the  deceased  Frenchman,  he  led  the  way  with 
swinging  strides.  Long  after  they  had  disap- 
peared down  the  gorge,  the  mountain  boy  Gabriel, 
yellow  of  skin  and  oddly  wrinkled  of  face,  stood 
on  the  rock  at  the  brink  of  the  village  and  sought 
to  follow  them  with  his  wistful  eyes. 


328  THE  WOLF-CUB 

The  cavalcade  convoluted  through  the  gorges. 
Never  once  did  they  sight  the  senor  doctor. 
Mounted  as  he  was  on  the  nag,  slow  with  age  yet 
swifter-paced  than  the  ambling  donkeys,  the  hidalgo 
had  easily  put  dust  and  distance  between  them,  and 
buried  himself  in  the  lower  passes. 

They  came,  in  the  due  course  of  nights  and  days, 
to  the  mournful  Pass  of  the  Blessed  Trinity. 
There  were  three  diverging  roads  leading  out  and 
down  from  it.  Quesada,  many  yards  in  the  lead, 
waited  until  the  cavalcade  overtook  him.  Then 
pointing  to  that  dusty  road  which  snaked  most 
sweepingly  to  the  left,  he  said : 

"Felicidad  will  now  recognize  the  way.  That 
road  winds  through  the  Alpuj arras  and  directly 
down  into  Granada.  For  myself,  I  bid  thee  adios !  " 

Felicidad  exclaimed  in  surprise  and  deep  disap- 
pointment : 

"You  are  going  to  desolate  us,  Jacintito,  by  ab- 
senting yourself  ?  " 

"And  you  are  not  going  to  help  us  assault  the 
hidalgo  doctor's  casa  with  bell  and  book  and  ring?  " 
from  Morales. 

Said  the  American  with  quiet  appeal,  "I  in- 
tended you  for  my  best  man,  Jacinto." 

But  to  all  Quesada  shook  his  head  in  dissent. 

"Down  in  Getafe,"  he  returned,  "there  are  ten 
thousand  pesetas  awaiting  me — the  reward  for  my 
own  death ! " 

"But  that  affair  of  the  Christ  of  the  Pass!" 
exclaimed  Carson.  "You  there  proclaimed  your- 
self to  the  police  as  still  alive.  The  Guardia  Civil 
must  know  now  that  Montara  and  the  dead  sergeant 


THE  WOLF-CUB  329 

made  a  mistake.  They  may  even  guess  it  was 
Ferou  that  was  killed.  To  go  to  Getafe,  after  all 
this,  will  be  to  put  your  head  into  a  noose !  " 

Quesada  smiled  grimly. 

"But  they  may  have  taken  me  for  a  rank  im- 
postor. They  may  have  thought  me  some  serrano 
friend  of  the  Alvarados  who,  overhearing  the  old 
mother's  story  and  lacking  ingenuity,  announced 
myself  as  Jacinto  Quesada  just  to  dumbfound  the 
police  and  save  poor  Miguel." 

"Hardly  likely,"  remarked  Carson  drily. 

"Ea  pues !  "  exclaimed  Quesada.  "Well,  then ! 
How  about  the  fact  that  the  honor  of  the  Guardia 
Civil  was  jeopardized  by  young  Alvarado's  treach- 
ery and  that,  before  my  very  eyes,  Capitan  Luis 
Guevara  and  his  troop  swore  themselves  to  se- 
crecy? Senor  Carson,  you  do  not  know  the  Span- 
ish police  as  do  I.  Even  as  Don  Jaime  and  Sar- 
gento  Esteban  Alvarado  thought  more  of  their 
personal  honor  than  they  did  of  the  lives  of  their 
offspring,  even  and  just  so  do  the  Guardia  Civil 
think  more  of  their  honor  and  good  name  than  they 
do  of  capturing  a  mere  bandolero,  of  keeping  se- 
cure the  peace  of  Spain! 

"That  troop  of  police  has  not  told  headquarters. 
I  am  even  taking  the  chance  that  Montara  filed  his 
report  as  if  nothing  had  happened  that  night  at 
the  shrine.  Getafe  will  not  know  of  my  resurrec- 
tion until  I  play  this  little  trick.  For  the  interval, 
I  am  Monsenor  Jacques  Ferou !  " 

"It  is  a  coup !  "  enthused  Morales. 

"But  a  tremendously  risky  one,"  qualified  the 
American  dubiously.  "You  stand  to  win  ten  thou- 


330  THE  WOLF-CUB 

sand  pesetas,  Quesada,  but  you  stand  by  far  longer 
odds  to  lose  your  life.  For  what  do  you  need 
money  so  badly,  Jacinto,  that  you  should  stake  red 
alfonsos  against  your  precious  neck?" 

"Am  I  not  forever  risking  everything  to  gain 
mere  gold?"  countered  Quesada.  "But  carajo! 
that  is  not  my  reason.  I  have  a  higher  incent- 
ive." 

His  gaunt  face  became  priestly  with  a  sudden 
somber  tenderness. 

"Up  in  Minas  de  la  Sierra,"  he  went  on,  "there 
is  a  mountaineer's  orphan  bantling  with  heart  of 
fire  and  soul  of  gold.  To-day  he  dreams  to  be  a 
great  man  of  Spain.  But  the  God  of  Spain  smiles 
derisively  upon  a  son  of  the  people  who  would  seek 
to  rise  above  his  fellows.  Spain  is  a  country  of 
limited  opportunities.  Here  there  are  only  two 
careers  open  for  a  son  of  the  soil.  My  little  moun- 
tain brat  may  become  a  bullfighter,  a  gran  espada 
like  our  Manuel ;  or  he  may  become  a  bandolero  like 
me.  There  is  naught  else  for  him.  I  know,  Senor 
Carson;  I  have  lived  Spain  myself! 

"Up  here  in  these  desolate  hills,  my  lad  is  too 
far  removed  from  the  cities  of  the  plains.  Never 
will  he  see  the  brutal  savage  encounter  of  bull  and 
man ;  never  will  be  waked  in  him  the  glamour  and 
ambition  for  the  blood  and  sand  of  the  arena. 
Never  will  he  be  a  bullfighter ! 

"But  carajo!  never  shall  he  be  a  bandolero!  I, 
Jacinto  Quesada,  say  it!  I  will  not  have  him  go 
houseless  in  the  wind  and  rain,  forever  hounded  by 
the  podencos  of  the  Guardia  Civil.  By  the  Nails 
of  Christ,  no!" 


THE  WOLF-CUB  331 

"What  would  you  then,  Jacinto?  "  asked  Felicidad 
with  the  quick  sympathy  of  a  woman. 

Interposed  the  matador  with  a  sudden  deep  in- 
terest: "Of  what  child  do  you  speak,  Que- 
sada?" 

"Of  the  boy  Gabriel!  Half  of  the  blood  money 
shall  be  used  to  send  him  to  the  great  University 
of  Salamanca!  I  will  make  our  little  Gabriel  a 
superb  senor  doctor  like  Felicidad's  own  haughty 
father,  Don  Jaime  !  " 

"I  will  put  an  equal  amount  to  the  furtherance 
of  the  noble  project!"  Morales  pledged  himself 
enthusiastically. 

"But  the  other  half,  Quesada?"  questioned  Car- 
son with  characteristic  acuteness.  "What  do  you 
purpose  doing  with  the  remaining  five  thousand 
pesetas?  " 

"I  have  a  plan  wherewith  to  use  them,"  returned 
Quesada  evasively. 

He  started  away.  He  would  say  no  more. 
Waving  his  hand  to  them  in  adieu,  he  called  back: 

"Go  thou  with  God,  my  friends.  The  orange 
trees  of  the  Alpujarras  are  in  white  and  fragrant 
bloom.  To  thee,  Senor  Carson,  and  to  mia  camar- 
ista  Felicidad,  I  wish  all  the  blessings  of  God  on  thy 
new  and  great  happiness !  " 

A  week  later,  a  wolfishly  gaunt  man  in  gray 
tweeds  and  slouch  traveling  hat  invaded  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Guardia  Civil  at  Getafe  and  pre- 
sented himself  before  the  desk  sergeant. 

"I  am  Monsenor  Jacques  Ferou,"  he  said.  "I 
come  to  claim  the  reward  for  the  killing,  up  in 


332  THE  WOLF-CUB 

Minas  de  la  Sierra,  of  the  bandolero,  Jacinto 
Quesada." 

The  desk  sergeant  was  very  glad  to  meet  Senor 
Ferou.  He  shook  his  hand  warmly.  He  knew 
from  the  foreign  swagger  of  his  clothes  that  the 
man  was  an  outlander.  As  with  all  Spaniards,  he 
had  two  guesses  as  to  the  country  of  the  stranger's 
nativity.  From  the  man's  name  then  and  swarthy 
complexion,  he  decided,  by  some  unaccountable 
quirk  of  the  mind,  that  he  was  an  Englishman! 

To  secure  the  authority  and  money,  he  dis- 
patched one  of  the  policemen  waiting  in  the  room 
to  the  office  of  the  Ministro  de  Gobernacion. 
Meanwhile,  making  conversation,  he  politely  in- 
quired whether  Senor  Ferou  liked  the  country. 

"Si ;  I  like  Spain  very  much,"  the  pseudo-English- 
man returned,  smiling  pleasantly.  "I  have  made 
many  good  friends  here,  and  Dios  sabe!  perhaps  a 
few  poor  enemies.  I  shall  remain  here  for  some 
time." 

"That  was  a  very  brave  thing  you  did  up  in  the 
Sierra  Nevadas.  Jacinto  Quesada  has  long  har- 
assed and  terrorized  us  poor  Moors.  All  Spain 
thanks  you  and  feels  you  well  merit  the  reward. 
But  have  you  any  plans  for  the  spending  of  all 
those  pesetas  ?  " 

"I  have  two  plans.  One  is  to  aid  a  protege  of 
mine,  a  motherless  little  child ;  the  other  to  pay  the 
costs  of  a  certain  fete.  There  is  going  to  be  a 
wedding  over  in  the  foothills  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 
It  is  to  be  a  wedding  among  the  gypsies.  You 
know  how  costly  and  lavish  are  the  marital  feasts 
of  the  Zincali.  They  celebrate  for  two  weeks, 


THE  WOLF-CUB  333 

hand-running,  just  like  the  Jews  of  Barbary.  You 
see,  sargento  mio,  I  am  to  marry  a  girl  of  the  Gitano, 
one  Paquita,  daughter  of  Pepe  Flammenca,  count  of 
a  gypsy  clan !  " 

"Ah !  "  exclaimed  the  sergeant,  his  face  wrinkling 
into  a  broad  smile.  "Most  certainly  are  you  Eng- 
lish both  eccentric  and  adventurous !  But  you  seek 
your  love  in  such  strange  places!  Do  not  our 
white,  soft-eyed  maids  of  Andalusia  captivate 
you?" 

"They  do  not,"  returned  the  man  in  the  gray 
tweeds  with  vehemence.  "When  your  Andalusian 
virgins  caress  me  with  languishing  looks  and  their 
tongues  drip  liquid  flattery  and  love,  my  masculin- 
ity rebels  at  the  thought  of  being  wooed  by  a 
woman.  You  know  we  Englishmen  joy  in  being 
the  seeker,  the  stalker,  the  predatory  one !  " 

"Eh,  eh!  This  Gitana  treated  you  with  disdain, 
what?  She  fled  from  you,  was  cold  to  your  kisses, 
took  on  as  if  you  were  a  dust-mote  in  her  eye,  no? 
Perhaps  she  even  prodded  a  knife  between  your  ribs 
— it  is  a  way  they  have,  these  soft  brown  leopards 
of  the  Zincali !  " 

"She  did  more  than  that.  She  stabbed  at  my 
pride.  She  made  love  to  another  man,  a  sad  fool, 
whom  she  had  imitate  and  ape  me  just  to  show  how 
little  importa  I  was — " 

The  policeman  returned,  just  then,  holding  in  his 
hand  two  five-thousand  peseta  bills  and  a  receipt  to 
be  signed.  The  man  in  the  gray  tweeds  affixed  his 
name  with  a  flourish.  Then  the  sergeant  handed 
him  the  bills  and  although  his  eyes  were  greedy,  he 
politely  said: 


334  THE  WOLF-CUB 

"Go  thou  with  God,  my  brave  Englishman,  and 
may  Heaven  bless  your  coming  happiness." 

He  looked  after  the  man  as  he  went  out  the  door, 
and  sighed  heavily. 

"Ah,  I  knew  them  well  when  I  was  young,  the 
brown  maidens  of  the  Zincali!  They  are  wine  to 
kiss  and  soft  silk  to  caress,  but  the  very  tigers  when 
aroused.  But  I  am  getting  on  now — getting  on 
and  too  old  for  such  thoughts !  " 

He  looked  down  at  the  receipt  in  his  hand.  He 
started. 

"Dios  hombre !  "  he  ejaculated. 

The  policemen  crowded  around  him.  But  he  had 
recovered. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said. 

He  went  back  to  his  desk.  There,  for  a  long 
time,  slyly  and  secretly  he  eyed  the  receipt  the  man 
had  given  him.  Upon  it  was  written : 

"Received  payment,  Jacinto  Quesada." 

Very  stealthily,  the  desk  sergeant  tore  the  paper 
into  a  thousand  little  bits. 


THE   END 


A    000  051  921     5 


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